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RECOMMENDATIONS. 



From Mrs. SiGOUENEt. 

The " Young Ladf's Reader," a varied, and tasteful selection of prose 
and poetry, arranged on rhetorical principles, — is admirably calculated to 
supply a deficiency which has long been felt to exist, in the higher de- 
partments of education. 

Mrs. Tuthill, by making her own extensive acquaintance with English 
literature, available to the good of others, merits the thanks of both 
teacher and scholar. L. H. S. 



From J. P. Brace, Esq., Principal of the Hartford Female Seminary. 

I have been highly gratified by an examination of the " Young Lady's 
Reader," which I have just finished. If I mistake not, the arrangement 
and the plan are entirely unlike any of the reading books now in use, and 
will, certainly, be well calculated for the object in view, — to teach and 
illustrate rhetoric, and the principles of style, by examples. 

The selection has been made with judgment and taste, and must be 
serviceable in strengthening the judgment, and improving the taste of 
the reader. J. P. BRACE. 

Hartford, Feb. % 1839. 



THE 



YOUNG LADY'S READER; 



ARRANGED FOR 



EXAMPLES IN RHETORIC 



FOR THE 



HIGHER CLASSES IN SEMINARIES. 









BY MRS. L. C. TUTHILL 



M- 



NEW HAVEN I 

PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY 

S. BABCOCK. 
1839. 









ENTERED, 
ACCORDING TO THE ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1839, By 

SIDNEY BABCOCK, 

IN THE OFFICE OF THE CLERK OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF CONNECTICUT. 






2-1? 



INTRODUCTION. 



A fine reader may contribute as much pleasure to the domestic circle, 
during the course of life, as a skillful performer on the harp or piano- 
forte. The instrument for reading is ever at hand, and seldom out of 
tune. Every body has an ear for it. It amuses childhood, instructs 
youth, soothes manhood, and cheers old age. 

When a young lady has acquired this accomplishment, why should she 
not entertain a circle of friends by reading, as readily as she would sing or 
play for them? Custom sanctions the one, why should it not the other ? 

The following rules are universally acknowledged to be requisite to 
good reading, namely : 

Full and distinct enunciation of syllables, and correct and elegant pro- 
nunciation. 

The voice should be pitched in the natural key; raised so loud as to be 
heard without effort, and not so loud as to fatigue the auditor and reader. 

Reading should not be so rapid as to be unintelligible, nor so deliberate 
as to be wearisome. 

A monotonous tone, — "the drone-pipe of the humble-bee," — should 
be avoided. 

A graceful attitude and pleasant expression of countenance, .should 
not be considered beneath the reader's notice. 

Above all, it is requisite to read intelligently — to enter into the meaning 
and spirit of the author. Without this, all other rules are in vain. Much 
assistance about the modulation of the voice, may be given by teachers of 
elocution, but nature and good taste, are the best teachers of emphasis 
and expression. 

The arrangement of the pieces contained in this book, under the various 
divisions made by Rhetoricians, may facilitate the intelligent reading of 
them; but it has, also, another important object in view. 

The examples given in class-books for Rhetoric are few, and mostly 
from the older writers. Instructors have long felt the need of further 
examples and apposite illustrations, for their pupils. 



IV INTRODUCTION. 

To young ladies who have studied the rules of Rhetoric at school, 
without fully understanding them, or without paying much attention to 
them, these examples may be of service in reviving and increasing their 
knowledge. 

They may assist those who are writing exercises in composition, in the 
formation of a good style, and in the use of figurative language. Models, 
in any art, are often better than rules; — not for servile imitation; they 
inspire a correct taste, and delicate perception of the beautiful. 

It has been left, in most cases, for the reader to discover the rhetorical 
figure, or figures, in each piete, without the aid of italics ; such assistance 
would be a poor compliment, both to author and reader. 

The examples are many of them from American authors ; this needs 
no apology; it is a pleasure to find that they have already contributed so 
largely to English Classic Literature. 



CONTENTS, 



HARMONY OF PERIODS. 

May you Die among your Kindred, ... Greenwood, 13 

Perry's Victory, .-....- Irving, 13 

Harmony, -...-... Bowring, 14 

Indian Summer, ------- Story, 15 

On the Spring, - - - - -- - - Gray, 16 

Unwritten Poetry, - - - - - - - Willis, 17 

Evening, - Croly, 18 

Idleness, - Willis, 18 

RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN SOUND AND SENSE. 

The Passions, - ■ • - - - - - - - ' ' . J Collins, 20 

Lake of Geneva, -------- Byron, 23 

To a Sky-Lark, Wordsworth, 23 

The Chase, Scott, 24 

The two Comets, Brainard, 26 

The Gnome and the Paddock, - Brainard, 28 



INVERSION. 

The Pantheon, Byron, 

Eve's Love for Adam, Milton, 

TROPES. 

The Coral Insect, Mrs. Sigourney, 

Farewell to the Vanities of the World, - J. Walton, 

Gertrude of Wyoming, Campbell, 

The Death of the Flowers, Bryant, 

Lucy, -- - -r . . . . , Wordsworth, 
Contentedness, Jeremy Taylor, 



29 
29 



30 
31 
32 
32 
33 
34 



METAPHOR. 

Love's Excuse for Sadness, Bulwer, 

Religion, Erskine, 

The Christian Soldier's Death, ... - Montgomery, 

Invention, £. Everett, 

Tyranny, Talfourd, 

Truth, Coleridge, 

The Sceptic, Mrs. Hemans, 

1* 



35 
36 
36 
38 
38 
39 
39 



VL 



CONTENTS. 



Inscription for a Hermit's Cell, 
Human Nature, 
Immortality, ... 



Wordsworth, 40 

Taylor, 41 

Wordsworth, 41 



COMPARISON. 

Time's Softening Power, Rogers, 42 

Ion, - - - - - - - - - - Talfourd, 42 

Autumn, Mrs. E. Smith, 43 

Woman, Halleck, 43 

The Minstrel Girl, Whittier, 44 

American History, ------- Verplanck, 45 

Nourmahal, Moore, 46 

Pleasures, .-.-..... Burns, 47 

Genius, Willis, 47 

Maria, Coleridge, 48 

" Mother what is Death?" Mrs. Gilman, 48 

Life, James, 49 

The Aspen Leaf, Miss Jewsbury, 50 



PERSONIFICATION. 

Wisdom, .--..-.. Solomon, 51 

Fame, - Pollok, 52 

Greece and Rome, - - Story, 53 

Death, - Mrs. Hemans, 54 

Psalm cxiv., David, 55 

The Winds, - - - - - - - Miss Gould, 55 

Atheism, -------- Coleridge, 56 

Poetry, Wolfe, 56 

Mirth, - - - - -. - - - Milton, 57 

England in 1814, Alison, 58 

The Clouds, Grenville MeUen, 59 



ALLEGORY. 



Paradise of Youth, - 

Time and Beauty, - 

The World and Intellectual Prowess, 

The Philosopher's Scales, 



Bulwer, 62 

Literary Gazette, 64 

Coleridge, 66 

Miss J. Taylor, 66 



APOSTROPHE. 



The Stars, Croly, 68 

To a Departed Spirit, Mrs. Hemans, 68 

Extract from the Present Crisis, - Hall, 69 

Hope, - - Campbell, 70 

Extract from an Eulogy on LaFayette, - E, Everett, 71 

The Wounded Eagle, Mrs. Hemans, 72 



CONTENTS. 



VH 



HYPERBOLE. 

Cleopatra upon the Cydnus, .... Shakspeare, 73 

The Philosopher's Stone, .'•'•-■-••■- Ben Johnson, 74 

Lord Byron, ------- Boston Bard, 74 

A Word, Byron, 75 

CLIMAX. 

Motives to Reform, Beeclter, 76 

Desire of Esteem, and Love of Admiration, - - Dwight, 76 

Earthly Gradations, Taylor, 78 

The Apostles, Massillon, 79 

Our Country, Webster, 80 

ANTITHESIS. 

Baubles, --------- Pope, 81 

Benedick, - - -- - - - - Shakspeare, 81 

The Character of a Good Parson, - - - - Dryden, 82 

Honor and Virtue, ------- Colton, 83 

Minna and Brenda. ------- Scott, 84 

Poetry and History, - - Wolfe, 88 

INTERROGATION. 

The Moral Influence of Visiting the Graves of the Departed, Story, 89 

" Man Giveth up the Ghost, and Where is He ?" - - Sparks, 90 

The World's Wanderers, Shelley, 92 

Man's High Destiny, Taylor, 92 

REPETITION. 

"I Would not Live Alway," - - - - Episcopal Watchman, 93 

You Would Lose your Reason, Massillon, 94 

The Calm at Sea, --.... Coleridge, 95 

The Song of Deborah, 96 

EXCLAMATION. 

The Burial Place, - - Story, 98 

Extract from a Discourse, ------ Nott, 98 

Pompeii, Bulwer, 99 

Reason, Coleridge, 99 

Morning after a Storm, Moore, 100 

Ambition, Willis, 101 



IRONY. 



Right of the Colonists to America, 
Modern Improvements, 



Irving, 101 
Halleck, 111 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

VISION. 

The Mayflower, E. Everett, 112 

Elijah at Mount Horeb, - - - - Krummacher, 113 

Bloody Brook, E. Everett, 114 

THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 

Man's Knowledge Finite, Job, 115 

The Last Man, Campbell, 117 

The Planets, - - Taylor, 119 

Hymn before Sun-rise in the Vale of Chamouny, - Coleridge, 120 

The Fall of Niagara, Brainard, 122 

Martyrdom of Polycarp, Milner, 123 

DIFFUSE STYLE. 

Reciprocities, .-..-.. Dr. Johnson, 124 

Poetical Scribblers, Miss H. More, 127 

Female Romance, - - - - - - Mrs. Sanford, 129 

CONCISE STYLE. 

Of Education in a Republican Government, - Montesquieu, 133 

On Studies, Lord Bacon, 133 

DRY STYLE. 

A Minute Philosopher, Berkley, 135 

Morals of Chess, Dr. Franklin, 136 

PLAIN STYLE. 

Marriage, - New York Review, 139 

Rational Domestic Enjoyment, ..... Dick, 140 

NEAT STYLE. 

Female Authorship, Mad. de Stael, 143 

Hannah More, Roberts, 146 

Truth, - - - Sprague, 150 

ELEGANT STYLE. 

The Landing of Columbus, ------ Irving, 151 

The Past and Present, ----- Coleridge, 153 

The Three Orders of Greatness, - - - - Channing, 154 



CONTENTS. IX 

Milton's Paradise, Channing, 155 

The Princess Charlotte, Hall, 156 

Milton, Wolfe, 157 

The Illustrious Dead, ------- Binney, 159 

FLOWERY STYLE. 

Sacred Literature, Grimke, 160 

The Poetical Aspect of Visible Nature, - Montgomery, 161 

The Grapes of Gomorrah, - - - - - Philip, 164 

SIMPLE STYLE. 

Lien Chi Altangi's Description of an English Fine Lady, Goldsmith, 168 

Queen Elizabeth, Mcintosh, 169 

Rustic Wedding and Funeral, - Longfellow, 171 

Marco Bozzaris, - Stevens, 173 

VEHEMENT STYLE. 

Human Depravity, ------- Saurin, 177 

The Federal Constitution, - Patrick Henry, 178 

Infidel Philosophy, Robert Hall, 179 

The Church of England, Burke, 181 

Conscience, --------- Taylor, 182 

The Bible, ------- Miss Jewsbury, 184 

HISTORICAL WRITING. 

Character of Paul, -------- Milner, 185 

Rienzi, -..__._.- Gibbon, 186 

Death of Elizabeth, ------- Hume, 189 

Alexander's Visit to the Temple of Jupiter, - - Goldsmith, 192 

MEMOIRS. 
Semiramis, ------- Mrs. Jameson, 193 

BIOGRAPHY. 

Brainard, Whittier, 198 

Magliabechi, -------- B' Israeli, 202 

FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 

Anningait and Ajut, Johnson, 204 

The Witch, Anon. 209 

The Autobiography of an Unlucky Wit, - - - Mrs. Traill, 215 



CONTENTS. 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 



Loss of Beauty, - 

Corinne at the Capitol, 
The Acceptance and the Release, 
The Escape, - - - 

The Frenchman and the Monk, 



Mrs. Gilman, 224 

- Mad. de Stael, 227 

Mrs. E. E. Smith, 230 

Scott, 234 

- James, 247 



PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. 

Justice as it Respects Reputation, - Wayland, 251 

On the Regulation and Control of the Succession of our 

Thoughts, ------- Alercrombie, 253 

Dreams, ..._.-.. - Steioart, 254 

Signs, Sir H. Davy, 257 

Friendship, - ' -' • - •' . - '■. - ' - Brovrn, 259 

EPISTOLARY WRITING. 

To Miss Baillie, Sir Walter Scott, 263 

To Miss Edgeworth, Sir Walter Scott, 265 

To Mrs. H. More, .... Countess Ciemorne, 267 

Pliny to Hispula, - - - ' 268 

To Lady O. Sparrow, ----- Mrs. H. More, 269 

To a Scotch Cousin, - Miss Sinclair, 271 

To Miss H. More, Bishop Porteus, 273 

To Mrs. H. More, ------ Rev. J. Newton, 274 

To a Young Lady, — On the Melancholy arising from a Fas- 
tidious. Sensibility, ----- Miss Jcwsbury, 277 



A DISCOURSE. 
On the Government of the Thoughts, 



Home, 282 



DIALOGUE. 

True Love is no Flatterer, ... - Shakspeare, 292 

Woman's Duty, Shakspeare, 295 

The Siege of Valencia, Mrs. Hemans, 297 

The Piccolomini, Schiller, 301 

The Gamester, E. Moore, 308 



BLANK VERSE. 

Comus, Milton, 313 

Dalila, Milton, 315 

Hymn, --------- Thomson, 316 

Musical Association, Cowper, 318 

Hagar in the Wilderness, ._.--- Willis, 319 



RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN SOUND AND SENSE. 23 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 

Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic round, 

(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,) 

And he, amidst his frolic play, 

As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 



LAKE OF GENEVA.— Byron. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
That T with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep; and, drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more. ' 



I 



TO A SKY-LARK.— Wordsworth. 

Up with me! up with me into the clouds ! 

For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 

Singing, singing, 
With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 

Lift me, guide me till I find 
That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 



24 young lady's reader. 

I have walked through wilderness dreary 

And to-day my heart is weary ; 

Had I now the wings of a fairy, 

Up to thee would I fly. 

There's madness about thee, and joy divine 

In that song of thine ; 

Lift me, guide me high and high 

To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning, 
Thou art laughing and scorning; 
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
And, though little troubled with sloth, 
Drunken lark ! thou would'st be loth 
To be such a traveler as I. 
Happy, happy liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain river 

Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 

Joy and jollity be with us both! 

Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 

Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; 

But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 

As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 

I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 

And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. 



THE CHASE.— Scott. 

The stag at eve had drunk his fill, 

"Where danced the moon on Monan's rill, 

And deep his midnight lair had made 

In lone Glenartney's hazel shade; 

But, when the sun his beacon red 

Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head, 

The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay 

Resounded up the rocky way, 

And faint, from farther distance borne, 

Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. 

As chief, who hears his warder call, 
" To arms ! the foeman storm the wall," 



RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN SOUND AND SENSE. 25 

The antlered monarch of the waste 

Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. 

But, ere his fleet career he took, 

The dew-drops from his flanks he shook ; 

Like crested leader proud and high, 

Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky ; 

A moment gazed adown the dale, 

A moment snuffed the tainted gale, 

A moment listened to the cry, 

That thickened as the chase drew nigh ; 

Then, as the headmost foes appeared, 

With one brave bound the copse he cleared, 

And, stretching forward free and far, 

Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. 

Yelled on the view the opening pack ; 
Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back ; 
To many a mingled sound at once 
The awakened mountain gave response. 
A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, 
Clattered a hundred steeds along, 
Their peal the merry horns rung out, 
A hundred voices joined the shout ; 
With hark and whoop and wild halloo, 
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. 
Far from the tumult fled the roe, 
Close in her covert cowered the doe, 
The falcon, from her cairn on high, 
Cast on the rout a wandering eye, 
Till far beyond her piercing ken 
The hurricane had swept the glen. 
Faint, and more faint, its failing din 
Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, 
And silence settled, wide and still, 
On the lone wood and mighty hill. 

Less loud the sounds of silvan war 
Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, 
And roused the cavern, where, 'tis told, 
A giant made his den of old ; 
For ere that steep ascent was won, 
High in his pathway hung the sun, 
3 



26 young lady's reader. 

And many a gallant, stayed perforce, 
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse, 
And of the trackers of the deer, 
Scarce half the lessening pack was near 
So shrewdly on the mountain side, 
Had the bold burst their mettle tried. 

The noble stag was pausing now, 
Upon the mountain's southern brow, 
Where broad extended, far beneath, 
The varied realms of fair Menteith. 
With anxious eye he wandered o'er 
Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, 
And pondered refuge from his toil, 
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. 
But nearer was the copsewood gray, 
That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, 
And mingled with the pine-trees blue 
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue. 
Fresh vigor with the hope returned, 
With flying foot the heath he spurned, 
Held westward with unwearied race, 
And left behind the panting chase. 



THE TWO COMETS.— Brainard. 

There were two visible at the time this was written; and for the verses,, 
they were, on other accounts, strictly occasional. 

There once dwelt in Olympus some notable oddities, 
For their wild singularities called gods and goddesses — 
But one in particular beat 'em all hollow, 
Whose name, style, and title, was Phcebus Apollo. 

Nov/ Phoeb. was a genius — his hand he could turn 
To any thing, every thing genius can learn : 
Bright, sensible, graceful, cute, spirited, handy, 
Well-bred, well-behaved — a celestial dandy ! 
An eloquent god, though he didn't say much ; 
But he drew a long bow, spoke Greek, Latin and Dutch ; 
A doctor, a poet, a soarer, a diver, 
And of horses in harness an excellent driver. 



RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN SOUND AND SENSE. 27 

He would tackle his steeds to the wheels of the sun, 
And he drove up the east every morning but one; 
When young Phaeton begged of his daddy at five, 
To stay with Aurora a day, and he'd drive. 
So good-natured Phoebus gave Phaey the seat, 
With his mittens, change, waybill, and stage-horn complete ; 
To the breeze of the morning he shook his bright locks, 
Blew the lamps of the night out, and mounted the box. 
The crack of his whip, like the breaking of day, 
Warmed the wax in the ears of the leaders, and they 
With a snort, like the fog of the morning, cleared out 
For the west, as young Phaey meant to get there about 
Two hours before sunset. 

He looked at his " turnip" 
And to make the delay of the old line concern up, 
He gave 'em the reins ; and from Aries to Cancer, 
The style of his drive on the road seemed to answer; 
But at Leo, the ears of the near wheel-horse pricked, 
And at Virgo the heels of the off leader kicked 
Over Libra the whiffle-tree broke in the middle, 
And the traces snapped short, like the strings of a fiddle. 
One wheel struck near Scorpio, who gave it a roll, 
And sent it to buzz, like a top, round the pole ; 
While the other whizzed back with its linchpin and hub, 
Or, more learnedly speaking, its nucleus or nub ; 
And, whether in earnest, or whether in fun, 
He carried away a few locks of the sun. 

The state of poor Phaeton's coach was a blue one, 
And Jupiter ordered Apollo a new one ; 
But our driver felt rather too proud to say " Whoa," 
Letting horses, and harness, and every thing go 
At their terrified pleasure abroad ; and the muse 
Says, they cut to this day just what capers they choose ; 
That the eyes of the chargers as meteors shine forth ; 
That their manes stream along in the lights of the north ; 
That the wheels which are missing are comets, that run 
As fast as they did when they carried the sun ; 
And still pushing forward, though never arriving, 
Think the west is before them, and Phaeton driving. 



28 young lady's reader. 



THE GNOME AND THE PADDOCK.— Brainard, 

I am a Gnome, and this old granite ledge 

My home and habitation since the days 

When the big floods brake up, and massy rain 

Fell, deluge upon deluge, to the earth, — 

When lightning, hot and hissing, crinkled by 

Each scathed and thunder-blasted twig that shewed 

Its leaf above the waters. Years had passed 

And centuries too, when by this sheltered side 

The Indian built his fire and ate his samp, 

And laid him down — how quietly — beneath 

The shadow of this rock. 'Twas great to him 

And in a weary land. For yonder where 

The school boy flies his kite, and little girls 

Seek four leaved clover — there the Buffalo 

Led his wild herd. There once and only once 

The mammoth stalked. Thou Paddock heard'st hia tread, 

But I, — I saw him. By this very rock — 

This little ledge he passed. Three stately steps ! 

And every rough and wooded promontory 

Trembled, 

And for his voice — 'twas musical, 
And though too sonorous for human ear, 
Yet to a Gnome 'twas wondrous— exquisite, 
For every vein of undiscovered ore 
Rang in full harmony to that bold tone. 
From the wild surface to the lowest depth 
And through and round the pillar of the earth 
Were silver streaks and golden radiants 
That trembled through their courses, when a note 
Congenial waked their low, sweet, solemn sound. 



29 



INVERSION. 



THE PANTHEON.— Byron. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints, and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; 
Looking tranquility, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and tyrant's rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety — Pantheon — pride of Rome ! 



EVE'S LOVE FOR ADAM.— Miltoic. 

To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorned ; 
" My author and disposer, what thou bid'st 
Unargued I obey : so God ordains ; 
God is thy law, thou mine : to know no more 
Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. 
With thee conversing I forget all time ; 
All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
"With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, 
When first on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
Glistering with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, 
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train : 
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun 
On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, 
Glistering with dew ; nor fragrance after showers, 
Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night, 
With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon, 
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet. 
3* 



30 



TROPES 



THE CORAL INSECT.— Mrs. Sigourney, 

Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train, 

Who build in the tossing and treacherous main ; 

Toil on — for the wisdom of man ye mock, 

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock ; 

Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, 

And your arches spring up to the crested wave ; 

Ye 're a puny race, thus to boldly rear 

A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, 

The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone ; 

Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, 

Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; 

The turf looks green where the breakers rolled ; 

O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; 

The sea-snatched isle is the home of men, 

And the mountains exult where the wave hath been. 

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark 
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark 1 
There are snares enough on the tented field, 
'Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield ; 
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up ; 
There's a poison drop in man's purest cup ; 
There are foes that watch for his cradle breath, 
And why need ye sow the floods with death ? 

With moldering bones the deeps are white, 
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright; — 
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold, 
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold, 
And the gods of ocean have frowned to see 
The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; — 
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread 
The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? 



TROPES. 31 

Ye build — ye build — but ye enter not in, 

Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin ; 

From the land of promise ye fade and die, 

Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye ; — 

As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid, 

Their noteless bones in oblivion hid, 

Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main, 

While the wonder and pride of your works remain. 



FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.— I. Walton, 

Farewell, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles ; 

Farewell, ye honored rags, ye glorious bubbles ; 

Fame 's but a hollow echo, gold, pure clay ! 

Honor, the darling but of one short day ; 

Beauty, th' eye's idol, but a damasked skin ; 

State but a golden prison, to live in 

And torture free born minds : embroidered trains, 

Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins ; 

And blood allied to greatness, is alone 

Inherited, not purchased, nor our own. 

Fame, honor, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, 
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 

I would be great, but that the sun doth still 

Level his rays against the rising hill : 

I woidd be high, but see the proudest oak 

Most subject to the rending thunder stroke : 

I would be rich, but see men too unkind, 

Dig in the bowels of the richest mind : 

I would be wise, but that I often see 

The fox suspected while the ass goes free : 

I would be fair, but see the fair and proud, 

Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud : 

I would be poor, but know the humble grass 

Still trampled on by each unworthy ass : 

Rich, hated; wise, suspected: scorned if poor : 

Great, feared : fair, tempted : high, still envied more : 

I have wished all ; but now T wish for neither ; 

Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair ; poor I'll be rather. 



32 young lady's reader. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING,— Campbell 

The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude's cheek 

What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire 

A Briton's independence taught to seek 

Far western worlds ; and there his household fire 

The light of social love did long inspire, 

And many a halcyon day he lived to see 

Unbroken, but by one misfortune dire, 

When fate had 'reft his mutual heart — but she 

Was gone — and Gertrude climbed a widowed father's knee. 

A loved bequest, — and I may half impart 

To them that feel the strong paternal tie, 

How like a new existence to his heart 

Uprose that living flower beneath his eye, 

Dear as she was, from cherub infancy, 

From hours when she would round his garden play, 

To time when as the rip'ning years went by, 

Her lovely mind could culture well repay, 

And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day. 

I may not paint those thousand infant charms ; 

Unconscious fascination, undesigned ! 

The orison repeated in his arms, 

For God to bless her sire and all mankind ; 

The book, the bosom on his knee reclined, 

Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, 

(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind :) 

All uncompanioned else her years had gone 

Till now in Gertrude's eyes their ninth blue summer shone. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS,— Bryant. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and 

sere, 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy 

day. 



TROPES. 33 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately 

sprung and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie ; but cold November rain 
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 
And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague 

on men, 
And the brightness'of their smile was gone from upland, glade, 

and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days 

will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees 

are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late 

he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : 
In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief ; 
Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 



LUCY.— Wordsworth, 

She was a phantom of delight, 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely apparition sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, 

Like twilight, too, her dusky hair; 



34 young lady's reader. 

But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle and way -lay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ! 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet. 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles', 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveler betwixt life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill, 
A perfect woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort and command; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
"With something of an angel light. 



CONTENTEDNESS.— Jeremy Taylor. 

If you will secure a contented spirit, you must measure your 
desires by your fortune and condition, not your fortunes by your 
desires ; that is, be governed by your needs, not by your fancy ; 
by nature, not by evil customs and ambitious principles. He 
that would shoot an arrow out of a plough, or hunt a hare with 
an elephant, is not unfortunate for missing the mark or prey ; 
but he is foolish for choosing such unapt instruments : and so 
is he that runs after his content with appetites not springing 
from natural needs, but from physical, fantastical, and vio- 
lent necessities. These are not to be satisfied ; or if they 
were, a man hath chosen an evil instrument towards his con- 
tent : nature did not intend rest to a man by filling of such de- 
sires. Is that beast better that hath two or three mountains to 
graze on, than a little bee that feeds on dew or manna, and lives 



METAPHOR. 35 

upon what falls every morning from the store-houses of heaven, 
clouds and providence ? Can a man quench his thirst better 
out of a river than a full urn ; or drink better from the fountain 
when it is finely paved with marble, than when it swells over 
the green turf? Pride and artificial gluttonies do but adul- 
terate nature, making our diet healthless, our appetites im- 
patient and unsatisfiable, and the taste mixed, fantastic and 
meretricious. But that which we miscall poverty, is indeed 
nature : and its proportions are the just measures of a man, 
and the best instruments of content. But when we create 
needs that God or nature never made, we have erected to our- 
selves an infinite stock of trouble that can have no period. 
Sempronius complained of want of clothes, and was much 
troubled for a new suit, being ashamed to appear in the theater 
with his gown a little thread-bare ; but when he got it, and gave 
his old clothes to Codrus, the poor man was ravished with joy, 
and went and gave God thanks for his new purchase ; and Co- 
drus was made richly fine and cheerfully warm by that which 
Sempronius was ashamed to wear ; and yet their natural needs 
were both alike ; the difference only was that Sempronius had 
some artificial and fantastical necessities superinduced, which 
Codrus had not ; and was harder to be relieved, and could not 
have joy at so cheap a rate : because he only lived according 
to nature ; the other by pride, and ill customs, and measures ta- 
ken by other men's eyes and tongues, and artificial needs. He 
that propounds to his fancy things greater than himself or his 
needs, and is discontented and troubled when he fails of such 
purchases, ought not to accuse providence, or blame his fortune, 
but his folly. God and nature made no more needs than they 
mean to satisfy ; and he that will make more, must look for sat- 
isfaction where he can. 



METAPHOR. 



LOVE'S EXCUSE FOR SADNESS.— Bplwer, 

Chide not, beloved, if oft with thee 

I feel not rapture wholly ; 
For aye the heart that's filled with love, 

Runs o'er in melancholy. 



36 young lady's reader. 

To streams that glide in noon, the shade 

From summer skies is given; 
So, if my breast reflects the clouds, 

'Tis but the cloud of heaven ! 
Thine image glassed within my soul, 

So well the mirror keepeth, 
That, chide me not, if with the light 

The shadow also sleepeth. 



RELIGION,— -Erskine, 

Depend upon it, the world cannot be held together without 
morals ; nor can morals maintain their station in the human 
heart without religion, which is the corner stone of the fabric of 
human virtue. We have lately had a most striking proof of 
this sublime and consoling truth, in one result, at least, of the 
revolution which has astonished and shaken the earth.— 
Though a false philosophy was permitted for a season to raise 
up her vain fantastic front, and to trample down the christian es- 
tablishments and institutions, yet, on a sudden, God said, " Let 
there be light, and there was light." The altars of religion 
were restored ; not purged indeed of human errors and super- 
stitions, not reformed in the just sense of reformation, yet the 
christian religion is still re-established ; leading on to farther 
reformation ; fulfilling the hope, that the doctrines and practice 
of Christianity shall overspread the face of the earth. 



THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER'S DEATH.—Montgomery. 

" Servant of God! well done ; 

Rest from thy loved employ ; 

The battle fcught, the victory won, 

Enter thy Master's joy." 

— The A'oice at midnight came ; 

He started up to hear, 

A mortal arrow pierced his frame : 

He fell, — but felt no fear. 

Tranquil amidst alarms, 
It found him in the field, 



CONTENTS. 



XI 



Thanatopsis, .-.-.-.. Bryant, 322 
Solitude , ------- Mrs. Sigourney, 324 

Age and Madness, --..-.. Pollok, 325 

PASTORAL POETRY. 



A Pastoral Ballad, 



Shenstone, 327 



LYRIC POETRY. 

The twenty-third Psalm, King David, 333 

Kindred Hearts, ------ Mrs. Hemans, 333 

Miriam's Song, - - Moore, 334 

New England, ---.---- Percival, 335 

A Regret for Childhood, - - - ' - - - Bulwer, 336 

Hymn to Diana, ------ Ben Jonson, 337 

Song, ---------- Moore, 337 

The Death of a Friend, Heber, 338 

Dedication Hymn, ------- Pierpont, 338 

The Daisy, 7 J, M . Good, 339 

DIDACTIC POETRY. 

Truth, Cowper, 340 

Taste, - - - - - - - ... Akenside, 341 

The Pastor's Prayer, ------ Wordsworth, 342 

SATIRE. 

Reviewers, - - - - -- - - - Byron, 343 

A Conceited Coxcomb, - - - - - Shakspeare, 344 

The Hypocrite, - - Pollok, 344 

Lov3 of Admiration, ------- Young, 345 

Mercenary Love, ------- Holmes, 346 

Affected Gravity, ------ Shakspeare, 347 

SONNETS. 

Life's Decay, ... - Shakspeare, 348 

Confirmation, ------- Wordsworth, 348 

Sonnet to , ------- Bryant, 349 

The Liturgy, Wordsworth, 349 

DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 



Portraits, -------- Proctor, 350 

Sabbath Evening in an Infected City, - Wilson, 351 

The Contrast, H. Smith, 351 

The Combat, Scott, 353 



Xll CONTENTS. 

The Healing of the Daughter of Jairus, - Willis, 357 

Jerusalem, _______ Hillhouse, 359 

Genevieve, _._----. Coleridge, 360 

The Death Bed, - Anon. 362 

EPIC POETRY. 

Address to the Holy Spirit, - Milton, 363 

Address to the Muse, ---_._. Homer, 365 

WIT AND HUMOR. 

The Ballad of the Oyster-Man, .... Holmes, 367 

Connecticut, .-._-_.. Halleck, 368 

On Style, _ Paulding, 370 

The Captain. — A Fragment, - Brainard, 375 

Small Talk, - ' T. H Bailey, 376 

The Fretful Man, Cowper, 378 

Modern Innovations, -__-... Wirt, 378 

An Accomplished Young Lady, ... - - - Halleck, 383 
Fashions, _..... .. Paulding, 384 

Wyoming, - Halleck, 386 

Letter from Mustapha Rub-a-Dub Keli Khan, to Asem 

Hacchem, Paulding, 387 

TRAGEDY. 
Orra, Joanna Baillie, 389 

COMEDY. 
As You Like it, Shakspeare, 418 



THE 

YOUNG LADY'S READER. 



HARMONY OF PERIODS. 



MAY YOU DIE AMONG YOUR KINDRED.— Greenwood. 

It is a sad thing to feel that we must die away from our 
home. Tell not the invalid who is yearning after his distant 
country, that the atmosphere around him is soft ; that the gales 
are filled with balm ; and the flowers are springing from the 
green earth ; — he knows that the softest air to his heart would 
be the air which hangs over his native land ; that more grate- 
ful than all the gales of the south, would breathe the low whis- 
pers of anxious affection ; that the very icicles clinging to his 
own eaves, and the snow beating against his own windows, 
would be far more pleasant to his eyes, than the bloom and ver- 
dure which only more forcibly remind him how far he is from 
that lone spot which is dearer to him than the world beside. 
He may indeed find estimable friends, who will do all in their 
power to promote his comfort and assuage his pains ; but they 
cannot supply the place of the long known and long loved ; 
they cannot read, as in a book, the mute language of his face ; 
they have not learned to wait upon his habits and anticipate his 
wants, and he has not learned to communicate, without hesita- 
tion, all his wishes, impressions, and thoughts, to them. He 
feels that he is a stranger ; and a more desolate feeling than 
that could not visit his soul. How much is expressed in that 
form of oriental benediction, May you die among your kindred! 



PERRY'S VICTORY.— Irving. 

"Were any thing wanting to perpetuate the fame of this victory, 
it would be sufficiently memorable from the scene where it was 
fought. This war has been distinguished by new and peculiar 

2 



14 YOUNG LADY'S READER. 

characteristics. Naval warfare has been carried into the inte- 
rior of a continent, and navies, as if by magic, lanched from 
among the depths of the forest! The bosoms of peaceful lakes, 
which but a short time since were scarcely navigated by man, 
except to be skimmed by the light canoe of the savage, have all 
at once been ploughed by hostile ships. The vast silence that 
had reigned for ages on these mighty waters, was broken by 
the thunder of artillery, and the affrighted savage stared with 
amazement from his covert, at the sudden apparition of a sea- 
fight amid the solitudes of the wilderness. 

The peal of war has once sounded on that lake, but probably 
will never sound again. The last roar of cannon that died 
along her shores, was the expiring note of British domination. 
Those vast internal seas will, perhaps, never again be the sepa- 
rating space between contending nations ; but will be embo- 
somed within a mighty empire ; and this victory, which decided 
their fate, will stand unrivalled and alone, deriving lustre and 
perpetuity from its singleness. 

In future times, when the shores of Erie shall hum with busy 
population; when towns and cities shall brighten where now 
extend the dark and tangled forest ; when ports shall spread 
their arms, and lofty barks shall ride where now the canoe is 
fastened to the stake ; when the present age shall have grown 
into venerable antiquity, and the mists of fable begin to gather 
round its history, then will the inhabitants of Canada look back 
to this battle we record, as one of the romantic achievements of 
the days of yore. It will stand first on the page of their local 
legends, and in the marvellous tales of the borders. The fish- 
erman, as he loiters along the beach, will point to some half 
buried cannon, corroded with the rust of time, and will speak of 
ocean warriors, that came from the shores of the Atlantic, — 
while the boatman, as he trims his sail to the breeze, will chant 
in rude ditties the name of Perry, the early hero of Lake Erie. 



HARMONY.— Bowring. 

I bade the Day-break bring to me 
Its own sweet song of ecstasy: 
An answer came from leafy trees, 
And waking birds, and wandering bees, 
And wavelets on the water's brim — 
The matin hymn — the matin hymn ! 



HARMONY OF PERIODS. 15 

I asked the Noon for music then : 

It echoed forth the hum of men ; 

The sounds of labor on the wind, 

The loud-voiced eloquence of mind ; 

The heart — the soul's sublime pulsations — 

The song — the shout — the shock of nations. 

I hasten'd from the restless throng, 
To soothe me with the Evening song : 
The dark'ning heaven was vocal still, 
I heard the music of the rill — 
The home-bound bee — the vesper bell — 
The cicadse — and philomel. 

Thou Omnipresent Harmony ! 
Shades, streams, and stars are full of thee ; 
On every wing — in every sound, 
Thine all-pervading power is found ; 
Some chord to touch— some tale to tell — 
Deep — deep within the Spirit's cell. 



INDIAN SUMMER.— Story. 

What can be more beautiful or more attractive than this sea- 
Bon in New England ? The sultry heat of summer has pass- 
ed away ; and a delicious coolness at evening succeeds the 
genial warmth of the day. The labors of the husbandman 
approach their natural termination ; and he gladdens with the 
near prospect of his promised reward. The earth swells with 
the increase of vegetation. The fields wave with their yellow 
and luxuriant harvests. The trees put forth their darkest foli- 
age, half shading and half revealing their ripened fruits, to 
tempt the appetite of man, and proclaim the goodness of his 
Creator. Even in scenes of another sort, where nature reigns 
alone in her own majesty, there is much to awaken religious 
enthusiasm. As yet, the forests stand clothed in their dress 
of undecayed magnificence. The winds, that rustle through 
their tops, scarcely disturb the silence of the shades below. 
The mountains and the vallies glow in warm green, or lively 
russet. The rivulets flow on with a noiseless current, reflect- 
ing back the images of many a glossy insect, that dips his 



16 YOUNG LADY'S READER. 

wings in their cooling waters. The mornings and evenings 
are still vocal with the notes of a thousand warblers, which 
plume their wings for a later flight. Above all, the clear blue 
sky, the long and sunny calms, the scarcely whispering bree- 
zes, the brilliant sunsets, lit up with all the wondrous magnifi- 
cence of light, and shade, and color, and slowly settling down 
into a pure and transparent twilight. These, these are days 
and scenes, which even the cold cannot behold without emo- 
tion ; but on which the meditative and pious gaze with pro- 
found admiration ; for they breathe of holier and happier re- 
gions beyond the grave. 



ON THE SPRING.— Gray. 

Lo ! where the rosy-bosomed hours, 

Fair Venus' train, appear, 
Disclose the long-expecting flowers, 

And wake the purple year, 
The attic warbler pours her throat 
Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 

The untaught harmony of spring, 
While, whispering pleasure as they fly, 
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky 

Their gathered fragrance fling. 

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 

A broader, browner shade, 
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 

O'er-canopies the glade, 
Beside some water's rushy brink 
With me the Muse shall sit, and think 

(At ease reclined in rustic state) 
How vain the ardor of the crowd, 
How low, how little, are the proud, 

How indigent the great ! 

Still is the toiling hand of care, 

The panting herds repose, 
Yet hark ! how through the peopled air, 

The busy murmur glows ! 



HARMONY OF PERIODS. 17 

The insect youth are on the wing, 
Eager to taste the honied spring, 

And float amid the liquid noon ; 
Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
Some show their gayly-gilded trim, 

Quick-glancing to the sun. 

To contemplation's sober eye, 

Such is the race of man, 
And they that creep and they that fly, 

Shall end where they began. 
Alike the busy and the gay 
But flutter through life's little day, 

In fortune's varying colors drest ; 
Brushed by the hand of rough mischance, 
Or chilled by age, their airy dance 

They leave, in dust to rest. 



UNWRITTEN POETRY.— Willis. 

There is poetry that is not written. It is living in the hearts 
of many to whom rhyme is a mystery. As 1 here use it, it is 
delicate perception ; something which is in the nature, ena- 
bling one man to detect harmony, and know forms of beauty 
better than another. It is like a peculiar gift of vision ; not 
creating a new world, but making the world we live in more 
visible ; enabling us to combine and separate and arrange ele- 
ments of beauty into the fair proportions of a picture. The 
poet hears music in common sounds, and sees loveliness by 
the wayside. There is not a change in the sky, nor a noise of 
the water, nor a sweet human voice, which does not bring him 
pleasure. He sees all the light and hears all the music about 
him — and this is poetry. 

To one thus gifted, nature is a friend of many sweet offices 
and true consolations. Call it visionary if you will, she has 
glad fellowship for the happy, and medicine for the wounded 
spirit, and calm communion for gentle thoughts, which are the 
life of his moral being. Let him seek her when he will, if his 
heart be any thing but dead, the poor sympathy of the world is 
a mockery to her ministering influences. I dare go farther. 
The power of nature over such a mind as I have described, is, 

2* 



18 YOUNG LADY'S READER. 

in cases of extreme mental suffering, or abandonment, stronger 
than any other moral influence. There is something in its deep 
and serene beauty, inexpressibly soothing to the diseased mind. 
It steals over it silently, and gradually, like an invisible finger, 
erasing its dark lines and removing its brooding shadows, and 
before he is aware, he is loving, and enjoying, and feeling, as 
he did in better days when his spirit was untroubled. To those 
who see nothing about them but physical convenience, these 
assertions may seem extravagant ; but they are nevertheless 
true ; and blessed be the Author of our faculties, there are some 
who know, by experience, that nature is a friend and a physi- 
cian to the sick and solitary spirit of her worshipper. 



EVENING.— Croly. 

'Tis eve, the soft, the purple hour ; 
The dew is glistening on the bower, 
The lily droops its silver head, 
The violet slumbers on its bed ; 
Heavy with sleep the leaflets close, 
Veiling thy bloom, enchanting rose, 
Still gazing on the western ray, 
The last sweet worshipper of day. 



IDLENESS —Willis. 

The rain is playing in soft pleasant tune 
Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade 
Of the fast-flying clouds across my book 
Passes with delicate change. My merry fire 
Sings cheerfully to itself; my musing cat 
Purrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep, 
And looks into my face as if she felt 
Like me the gentle influence of the rain. 
Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes^ 
And sometimes listening to the faster fall 
Of the large drops, or rising with the stir 
Of an unbidden thought, have walked awhile 
With the slow steps of indolence, myroom* 
And then sat down composedly again 
To my quaint book of olden poetry. 



HARMONY OF PERIODS. 19 

It is a kind of idleness, I know ; 

And I am said to be an idle man — 

And it is very true. I love to go 

Out in the pleasant sun, and let my eye 

Rest on the human faces that pass by, 

Each with its gay or busy interest: 

And then I muse upon their lot, and read 

Many a lesson in their changeful cast, 

And so grow kind of heart, as if the sight 

Of human beings were humanity. 

And I am better after it, and go 

More gratefully to my rest, and feel a love 

Stirring my heart to every living thing, 

And my low prayer has more humility, 

And I sink lightlier to my dreams — and this,. 

"Pis very true, is only idleness ! 

I love to go and mingle with the young 

In the gay festal room — when every heart 

Is beating faster than the merry tune, 

And their blue eyes are restless, and their lips 

Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks 

Flushed with the beautiful motion of the dance, 

And I can look upon such things, and go 

Back to my solitude, and dream bright dreams 

For their fast coming years, and speak of them 

Earnestly in my prayer, till I am glad 

"With a benevolent joy — and this, I know, 

To the world's eye is only idleness ! 

And when the clouds pass suddenly away, 

And the blue sky is like a newer world, 

And the sweet growing things — forest and flower. 

Humble and beautiful alike — are all 

Breathing up odors to the very heaven — 

Or when the frost has yielded to the sun 

In the rich autumn, and the filmy mist 

Lies like a silver lining on the sky, 

And the clear air exhilirates, and life 

Simply, is luxury — and when the hush 

Of twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on, 

And the birds settle to their nests, and stars 

Spring in the upper sky, and there is not 

A sound that is not low and musical — 



20 young laby's reader. 

At all these pleasant seasons I go out 
With my first impulse guiding me, and take 
Woodpath or stream, or slope by hill or vale, 
And in my recklessness of heart, stray on, 
Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves, 
And happy with the fair and blessed world — 
And this, 'tis true, is only idleness ! 

And I should love to go up to the sky, 
And course the heavens, like stars, and float away 
Upon the gliding clouds that have no stay 
In their swift journey — and 'twould be a joy 
To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread 
The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know 
The tribes of the unfathomable depths — 
Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea! 
And I should love to issue with the wind 
On a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth 
With its broad continents and islands green, 
Like to the passing of a spirit on ! — 
And this, 'tis true, were only idleness ! 



RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN SOUND AND SENSE. 



THE PASSIONS.— Collixs. 

When Music, heavenly maid ! was young,- 
While yet, in early Greece, she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Thronged around her magic cell; 
Exulting — trembling — raging — fainting, — 
Possessed beyond the muse's painting : 
By turns, they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired : 



RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN SOUND AND SENSE. 21 

From the supporting myrtles round, 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard, apart, 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each — (for madness ruled the hour — ) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewildered laid ; 
And back recoiled, he knew not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rushed — his eyes, on fire, 
In lightnings owned his secret stings; 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre — 
And swept with hurried hand, the strings. 

With woful measures, wan Despair — 
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 

'Twas sad, by fits — by starts, 'twas wild. 

But thou, Hope! with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delighted measure ! 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,. 
She called on Echo still through all her song; 
And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. 

And longer had she sung ; — but, with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose. 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down-,. 

And, with a withering look, 

The war-denouncing trumpet took,. 
And blew a blast, so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; 

And, ever and anon, he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat : 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,. 



22 young lady's reader. 

Dejected Pity at his side, 

Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed — 

Sad proof of thy distressful state; 
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; 

And now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate. 

With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, 

Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 

And, from her wild sequestered seat, 

In notes by distance made more sweet, 
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 

And, dashing soft from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms, the mingled measures stole, 
Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay, 

(Round a holy calm diffusing, 

Love of peace and lonely musing,) 
In hollow murmurs — died away. 

But, oh! how altered was its sprightlier tone, 
When Cheerfulness — a nymph of healthiest hue — 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung ! — 

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ; 
The oak-crowned sisters and their chaste-eyed queen, 
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: — 

He, with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; 
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, 
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. 
They would have thought who heard the strain, 
They saw in Tempers vale her native maids, 

Amidst the festal-sounding shades, 



METAPHOR, 37 

A veteran slumbering on his arms, 
Beneath his red-cross shield : 
His sword was in his hand, 
Still warm with recent fight ; 
Ready that moment, at command, 
Through rock and steel to smite. 

It was a two-edged blade, 

Of heavenly temper keen ; 

And double were the wounds it made, 

Where'er it smote between : 

'T was death to sin ; — 't was life 

To all that mourned for sin ; 

It kindled and it silenced strife, 

Made war and peace within. 

Oft with its fiery force 

His arm had quelled the foe, 

And laid, resistless in his course, 

The alien-armies low. 

Bent on such glorious toils, 

The world to him was loss ; 

Yet all his trophies, all his spoils, 

He hung upon the cross. 

At midnight came the cry, 

" To meet thy God prepare!" 

He woke, — and caught his Captain's eye; 

Then, strong in faith and prayer. 

His spirit, with a bound, 

Burst its encumbering clay ; 

His tent, at sun-rise, on the ground, 

A darkened ruin lay. 

The pains of death are past, 
Labor and sorrow cease, 
And life's long warfare closed at last, 
His soul is found in peace. 
Soldier of Christ ! well done ; 
Praise be thy new employ; 
And, while eternal ages run, 
Rest in thy Savior's joy. 
4 



38 young lady's reader. 



INVENTION.— E. Everett, 

From time to time, a chosen hand sometimes directed by 
chance, but more commonly guided by reflection, experiment, 
and research, touches a spring till then unperceived; and 
through what seemed a blank and impenetrable wall, — the bar- 
rier to all farther progress, — a door is thrown open into some 
before unexplored hall in the sacred temple of truth. The mul- 
titude rushes in, and wonders that the portals could have re- 
mained concealed so long. When a brilliant discovery or in- 
vention is proclaimed, men are astonished to think how long 
they had lived on its confines, without penetrating its nature. 



TYRANNY.— Talfourd. 

I know enough to feel for thee ; I know 

Thou hast endured the vilest wrong that tyranny 

In its worst frenzy can inflict ; — yet think, 

O think ! before the irrevocable deed 

Shuts out all thought, how much of power's excess 

Is theirs who raise the idol : — do we groan 

Beneath the personal force of this rash man, 

Who forty summers since hung at the breast 

A playful weakling; whom the heat unnerves, 

The north wind pierces ; and the hand of death 

May, in a moment, change to clay as vile 

As that of the scourged slave whose chains it severs? 

No ! 'tis our weakness gasping, or the shows 

Of outward strength that builds up tyranny, 

And makes it look so glorious : — If we shrink 

Faint-hearted from the reckoning of our span 

Of mortal days, we pamper the fond wish 

For long duration in a line of kings : 

If the rich pageantry of thoughts must fade 

All unsubstantial as the regal hues 

Of eve which purpled them, our cunning frailty 

Must robe a living image with their pomp, 

And wreathe a diadem around its brow, 

In which our sunny fantasies may live 

Empearl'd, and gleam, in fatal splendor, far 

On after ages. We must look within 



METAPHOR, 39 

For that which makes us slaves ; — on sympathies 
Which find no kindred objects in the plain 
Of common life — affections that aspire 
In air too thin — and fancy's dewy film 
Floating for rest ; for even such delicate threads, 
Gathered by fate's engrossing hand, supply 
The eternal spindle whence she weaves the bond 
Of cable strength in which our nature struggles ! 



TRUTH.— Coleridge. 

Truth considered in itself, and in the effects natural to it, may 
be conceived as a gentle spring, or water source, warm from the 
genial earth, and breathing up into the snow drift that is piled 
over and around its outlet. It turns the obstacle into its own 
form and character, and as it makes its way, increases its 
stream. And should it be arrested in its course by a chilling 
season, it suffers delay, not loss, and waits only for a change in 
the wind to awaken again and roll onwards. 



THE SCEPTIC— Mrs. Hemaiw. 

When the young eagle, with exulting eye, 
Has learned to dare the splendor of the sky, 
And leave the Alps beneath him in his course, 
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source, 
Will his free wing, from that majestic height, 
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light, 
Which far below, with evanescent fire, 
Shines to delude, and dazzles to expire ? 

No ! still through clouds he wins his upward way, 
And proudly claims his heritage of day ! 
— And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze 
The day-spring from on high hath poured its blaze, 
Turn from that pure effulgence, to the beam 
Of earth-born light, that sheds a treacherous gleam, 
Luring the wanderer from the star of faith, 
To the deep valley of the shades of death ? 
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, 
For the high birth-right of its hope in heaven! 



40 young lady's reader. 

If lost the gem which empires could not buy, 
What yet remains ? — a dark eternity ! 

Is earth still Eden! — might a seraph guest, 
Still, 'midst its chosen bowers delighted rest ? 
Is all so cloudless and so calm below, 
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show? 
That the cold sceptic in his pride elate, 
Rejects the promise of a brighter state, 
And leaves the rock, no tempest shall displace, 
To rear his dwelling on the quicksand's base ? 



INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMIT'S CELL.— Wordsworth. 

Hopes, what are they ? — Beads of morning 

Strung on slender blades of grass ; 

Or a spider's web adorning 

In a strait and treacherous path. 

What are fears but voices airy ? 
Whispering harm where harm is not ; 
And deluding the unwary 
Till the fatal bolt is shot ! 

What is glory ? — in the socket 
See how dying tapers fare ! 
What is pride ? — a whizzing rocket 
That would emulate a star. 

What is friendship? — do not trust her., 
Nor the vows which she has made ; 
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre 
From a palsy-shaken head. 

What is truth? — a staff rejected ; 
Duty ? — an unwelcome clog ; 
Joy ? — a moon by fits reflected 
In a swamp or watery bog ; 

Bright, as if through ether steeringj, 
To the traveler's eye it shone : 
He hath hailed it re-appearing—* 
And as quickly it is gone ; 



METAPHOR, 41 



Gone, as if for ever hidden, 
Or mis-shapen to the sight, 
And by sullen weeds forbidden 
To resume its native light. 

What is youth ? — a dancing billow, 
(Winds behind, and rocks before !) 
Age? — a drooping, tottering willow 
On a flat and lazy shore. 

What is peace ? — when pain is over, 
And love ceases to rebel, 
Let the last faint sigh discover 
That precedes the passing knell ! 



HUMAN NATURE.— Tatloe. 

The ground of the human heart is thickly fraught with seeds 
which never germinate under either a wintry, or a too fervent 
sky : but let the dew come gently on the ground, and let mild 
suns warm it, and let it be guarded against external rudeness, 
and we shall see spring up a garden of gaiety and fragrance. 
The Eden of human nature has indeed long ago been trampled 
down and desolated : storms waste it continually : — neverthe- 
less the soil is rich with the germs of its pristine beauty ; — all 
the colors of Paradise are sleeping in the clods ; and a little fa- 
vor, a little protection, a little culture, shall show what once was, 
there. 



IMMORTALITY.— Wordsworth, 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star. 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And cometh from afar. 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come. 
From God who is our home. 
4* 



42 



COMPARISON 



TIME'S SOFTENING POWER.— Rogers. 

As the stern grandeur of a gothie tower 
Awes not so deeply in its morning hour, 
As when the shades of time serenely fall 
On every broken arch and ivied wall ; 
The tender images we love to trace 
Steal from each year a melancholy grace! 
And as the sparks of social love expand ; 
As the heart opens in a foreign land, 
And with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, 
The stranger greets each native of his isle ; 
So scenes of life when present and confest, 
Stamp but their bolder features on the breast ; 
Yet not an image when remotely viewed, 
However trivial and however rude, 
But wins the heart and wakes the social sigh, 
"With every claim of close affinity. 



ION.— Talfourd. 

Ion, our sometime darling, whom we prized 

As a stray gift, by bounteous heaven dismissed 

From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud 

To make the happy happier ! Is he sent 

To grapple with the miseries of this time, 

Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears 

As it would perish at the touch of wrong 1 

By no internal contest is he trained 

For such hard duty ; no emotions rude 

Have his clear spirit vanquished ; Love, the germ 

Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth, 

Expanding with its progress, as the store 

Of rainbow color which the seed conceals 

Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury, 

To flush and circle in the flower. No tear 

Hath filled his eye save that of thoughtful joy 



COMPARISON. 43 

When, in the evening stillness, lovely things 

Pressed on his soul too busily ; his voice, 

If, in the earnestness of childish sports 

Raised to the tone of anger, checked its force, 

As if it feared to break its being's law, 

And faltered into music ; when the forms 

Of guilty passion have been made to live 

In pictured speech, and others have waxed loud 

In righteous indignation, he hath heard 

With sceptic smile, or from a slender vein 

Of goodness which surrounding gloom concealed, 

Struck sunlight o'er it : so his life hath flowed 

From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, 

In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure 

Alone are mirrored, which though shapes of ill 

May hover around its surface, glides in light, 

And takes no shadow from them. 



AUTUMN.— Mrs. E. Smith. 

It was a glorious day in autumn. The sky of unsullied blue 
glowed lika.a sapphire. The universal air was filled with still- 
ness. Not a breeze whispered — not a bird flapped its wing. 
It was the triumph of repose — when the undying energies of 
man slumbered for a moment, — when even the conflict of his 
passions was suspended. Beautiful, melancholy autumn ? 
whose ruddy ripeness whispers of decay ; whose richest tint3 
mingle with the " sere and yellow leaf," as if the lusty year 
had toiled through youth and manhood for wealth which over- 
flows, just when waning life indicates that the power of enjoy- 
ment is passing away. 



WOMAN.— Halleck. 

What is man's love 1 His vows are broke 
Even while his parting kiss is warm, — 

But woman's love all change will mock, 

And like the ivy round the oak, 
Clings closest in the storm. 



44 young lady's reader. 

And well the poet at her shrine, 

May bend, and worship while he woos > 

To him she is a thing divine, 

The inspiration of his line, 
His loved one, and his muse. 

If to his song the echo rings 

Of fame, 'tis woman's voice he hears ; 
If ever from his lyre's proud strings 
Flow sounds, like rush of angel wings, 
'Tis that she listens while he sings, 
"With blended smiles and tears : 

Smiles, — tears, — whose blest and blessing power. 

Like sun and dew o'er summer's tree, 
Alone keeps green through time's long hour 
That frailer thing than leaf or flower — 

A poet's immortality. 



THE MINSTREL GIRL.— Whittier, 

She leaned against her favorite tree, 

The golden sunlight melting through 
The twined branches as the free 

And easy pinioned breezes flew 
Around the bloom and greenness there ; 

Awakening all to life and motion, 
Like unseen spirits sent to bear 

Earth's perfume to the barren ocean, — • 
That ocean lay before her then 

Like a broad lustre to send back 
The scattered beams of day again 

To burn along its sunset track ! 
And broad and beautiful it shone, 

As quickened by some spiritual breath, 
Its very waves seemed dancing on 

To music whispered underneath. 

And there she leaned, — that minstrel girl,. 

The breeze's kiss was soft and meek, 
Where coral melted into pearl 

On parted lips, and glowing cheek; 



COMPARISON. 45 

Her dark and lifted eye had caught 

Its lustre from the spirits gem ; 
And round her brow the light of thought 

Was like an angel's diadem ; 
For genius, as a living coal, 

Had touched her heart with living flame, 
And on the altar of her soul 

The fire of inspiration came. 
And she had learned to love 

Each holy charm to nature given, — 
The changing earth — the skies above, 

Were prompters to her dreams of heaven ; 
She loved the earth, the streams that wind 

Like music from its hills of green— 
The stirring boughs above them twined, 

The shifting light — and shades between,— 
The fall of waves — the fountain gush — 

The sigh of winds — the music heard 
At even tide, from air and bush — 

The minstrelsy of leaf and bird. 
But chief she loved the sunset sky- 
Its golden clouds, like curtains drawn 
To form the gorgeous canopy 

Of monarchs to their slumbers gone. 



AMERICAN HISTORY.— Verplanck. 

The study of the history of most other nations, fills the mind 
with sentiments not unlike those which the American traveler 
feels on entering the venerable and lofty cathedral of some proud 
old city of Europe. Its solemn grandeur, its vastness, its ob- 
scurity, strikes awe to his heart. From the richly painted win- 
dows, filled with sacred emblems and strange antique forms, a 
dim religious light falls around. A thousand recollections of 
romance and poetry, and legendary story, come thronging in 
upon him. He is surrounded by the tombs of the mighty dead, 
rich with the labors of ancient art and emblazoned with the pomp 
of heraldry. 

What names does he read upon them ? Those of princes 
and nobles who are now remembered only for their vices ; and 
of sovereigns, at whose death no tears were shed, and whose 
memories live not an hour in the affections of their people, 



46 young lady's reader. 

There, too, he sees other names long familiar to him for their 
guilty or ambiguous fame. There rest, the blood-stained soldier 
of fortune — the orator, who was ever the ready apologist of 
tyranny — great scholars, who were the pensioned flatterers of 
power — and poets, who profaned the high gift of genius, to pam- 
per the vices of a corrupted court. 

Our own history, on the contrary, like that poetical temple 
of fame, reared by the imagination of Chaucer, and decorated 
by the taste of Pope, is almost exclusively dedicated to the 
memory of the truly great. Or rather, like the Pantheon of 
Rome, it stands in calm and severe beauty amid the ruins of 
ancient magnificence and the " toys of modern state." Within, 
no idle ornament encumbers its bold simplicity. The pure 
light of heaven enters from above and sheds an equal and serene 
radiance around. As the eye wanders about its extent, it be- 
holds the unadorned monuments of brave and good men who 
have greatly bled or toiled for their country, or it rests on votive 
tablets inscribed with the names of the best benefactors of man- 
kind. 

" Patriots are here, in Freedom's battles slain, 
Priests, whose long lives were closed without a stain, 
Bards worthy him who breathed the poet's mind, 
Founders of arts that dignify mankind, 
And lovers of our race, whose labors gave 
Their names a memory that defies the grave. 



NOURMAHAL.— Moore. 

There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, 
Like the long,, sunny lapse of a summer day's light, 
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, 
Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor, 
This was not the beauty — oh! nothing like this, 
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss ; 
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, 
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies 
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes ; 
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, 
Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in dreams! 
When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace, 
That charm of all others, was born with her face % 



COMPARISON. 47 

And when angry, for e'en in the tranquillest climes 

Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes — 

The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken 

New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. 

If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye 

At once took a darker, a heavenly dye, 

From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings 

From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings ! 

Then her mirth — oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing 

From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring ; 

Illumined by a wit that would fascinate sages, 

Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages. 

While her laugh, full of life, without any control, 

But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul, 

And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, 

In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brightened all over, 

Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, 

When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. 

Such, such were the peerless enchantments, that gave 

Nourmahal the proud lord of the east for her slave. 



PLEASURES.— Burns. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flower, its bloom is sped ; 
Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts forever ; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 



GENIUS,— Willis 

Oh how poor 
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, 
Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown 
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked — 
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest. 



4S young lady's reader. 



MARIA. — Coleridge. 



Her early youth passed away in sorrow : she grew up in 
tears, a stranger to the amusements of youth and its more de- 
lightful schemes and imaginations. She was not however un- 
happy ; she attributed, indeed, no merit to herself for her virtues, 
but for that reason were they the more her reward. Thepeace 
which passeth all understanding, disclosed itself in all her looks 
and movements. It lay on her countenance, like a steady un- 
shadowed moonlight ; and her voice, which was naturally at 
once sweet and subtle, came from her, like the fine flute-tones 
of a masterly performer, which, still floating at some uncertain 
distance, seem to be created by the player rather than to pro- 
ceed from the instrument. If you had listened to it in one of 
those brief sabbaths of the soul, when the activity and discur- 
siveness of the thoughts are suspended, and the mind quietly 
eddies round, instead of flowing onward — (as at late evening 
in the spring I have seen a bat wheel in silent circles round 
and round a fruit-tree in full blossom, in the midst of which, as 
within a close tent of the purest white, an unseen nightingale 
was piping its sweetest notes) — in such a mood you might have 
half-fancied, half-felt, that her voice had a separate being of its 
own — that it was a living something, whose mode of existence 
was for the ear only : so deep was her resignation, so entirely 
had it become the unconscious habit of her nature, and in all 
she did or said, so perfectly were both her movements and her 
utterance without effort and without the appearance of effort. 



MOTHER WHAT IS DEATH?"— Mrs Gilmak. 

" Mother, how still the baby lies ! 

I cannot hear his breath ^ 
I cannot see his laughing eyes — 

They tell me this is death. 

My little work I thought to bring, 

And sat down by his bed, 
And pleasantly 1 tried to sing — 

They hushed me — he is dead. 



COMPARISON. 49 

They say that he again will rise, 

More beautiful than now ; 
That God will bless him in the skies — 

O, mother, tell me how!" 

" Daughter do you remember, dear, 

The cold, dark thing you brought, 
And laid upon the casement here, — 

A withered worm, you thought 1 

I told you that Almighty Power 

Could break that withered shell, 
And show you, in a future hour, 

Something would please you well. 

Look at the chrysalis, my love, — 

An empty shell it lies ; 
Now raise your wandering glance above, 

To where yon insect flies !" 

" O, yes, mamma ! how very gay 

Its wings of starry gold ! 
And see ! it lightly flies awav 

Beyond my gentle hold. 

O, mother, now I know full well, 

If God that worm can change, 
And draw it from this broken cell, 

On golden wings to range, — 

How beautiful will brother be, 

When God shall give him wings, 
Above this dying world to flee, 

And live with heavenly things !" 



LIFE.— James. 

Life is always like a stream, whatever character it may as- 
sume. Grief murmurs, anger roars, impatience frets ; but hap- 
piness, like a calm river, flows on in quiet sunlight, without an 
eddy or a fall to mark the rushing of time towards eternity. 

5 



50 young lady's reader. 



THE ASPEN LEAF.— Miss Jewsbcrt. 

I would not be 

A leaf on yonder aspen tree ; 

In every fickle breeze to play, 

Wildly, weakly, idly gay, 

So feebly framed, so lightly hung, 

By the wing of an insect stirred and swung ; 

Thrilling even to a redbreast's note, 

Drooping if only a light mist float, 

Brightened and dimmed like a varying glass, 

As shadow or sunbeam chance to pass ; — 

I would not be 

A leaf on yonder aspen tree. 

It is not because the autumn sere 

Would change my merry guise and cheer, — 

That soon, full soon, nor leaf, nor stem, 

Sunlight would gladden, or dewdrop gem, 

That I, with my fellows, must fall to earth, 

Forgotten our beauty and breezy mirth, 

Or else on the bough where all had grown, 

Must linger on, and linger alone ; — 

Might life be an endless summer's day, 

And I be for ever green and gay, 

I would not be, I would not be, 

A leaf on yonder aspen tree ! 

Proudly spoken heart ot mine, 

Yet weakness and change perchance are thine, 

More, and darker, and sadder to see, 

Than befall the leaves of yonder tree ! 

What if they flutter — their life is a dance ; 

Or toy with the sunbeam — they live in his glance ; 

To bird, breeze, and insect rustle, and thrill, 

Never the same, never mute, never still, — 

Emblems of all that is fickle and gay, 

But leaves in their birth, but leaves in decay — 

Chicle them not — heed them not — spirit away ! 

In to thyself, to thine own hidden shrine, 

What there dost thou worship ? What deemest thou divine 1 

Thy hopes, — are they steadfast, and holy and high ? 

Are they built on a rock ? Are they raised to the sky ? — 



PERSONIFICATION. 51 

Thy deep secret yearnings, — oh ! whither point they, 

To the triumphs of earth, to the toys of a day 1 — 

Thy friendships and feelings, — doth impulse prevail, 

To make them, and mar them, as wind swells the sail 1 

Thy life's ruling passion — thy being's first aim — 

What are they 1 And yield they contentment or shame 1 

Spirit, proud spirit, ponder thy state ; 

If thine the leaf's lightness, not thine the leaf's fate : 

It may flutter, and glisten, and wither, and die, 

And heed not our pity, and ask not our sigh ; 

But for thee, the immortal, no winter may throw 

Eternal repose on thy joy or thy woe ; 

Thou must live, and live ever, in glory or gloom, 

Beyond the world's precincts, beyond the dark tomb. 

Look to thyself, then, ere past is hope's reign, 

And looking and longing alike are in vain ; 

Lest thou deem it a bliss to have been or to be 

But a fluttering leaf on yon aspen tree ! 



PERSONIFICATION. 



WISDOM.— Solomon. 

Doth not wisdom cry ? and understanding put forth her 
voice 1 She standeth in the top of high places, by the way 
in the places of the paths; she crieth at the gates, at the entry 
of the city, at the coming in at the doors ; unto you, men, I 
call ; and my voice is to the sons of man. O ye simple, under- 
stand wisdom ; and ye fools be ye of an understanding heart. 

Hear ; for I will speak of excellent things ; and the opening 
of my lips shall be right things. For my mouth shall speak 
truth; and wickedness is an abomination to my lips. All the 
words of my mouth are in righteousness ; there is nothing fro- 
ward or perverse in them. They are all plain to him that un- 
derstandeth, and right to them that find knowledge. 

Receive my instruction and not silver ; and knowledge rath- 
er than choice gold. For wisdom is better than rubies ; and all 
the things that may be desired are not to be compared to it. I 



52 young lady's reader. 

Wisdom dwell with prudence, and find out knowledge of witty- 
inventions. The fear of the Lord is to hate evil ; pride, and 
arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward mouth, do I hate. 
Counsel is mine, and sound wisdom : I am understanding ; I 
have strength. 

By me kings reign, and princes decree justice. By me prin- 
ces rule, and nobles, even all the judges of the earth. I love 
them that love me ; and those that seek me early shall find me. 
Riches and honor are with me ; yea durable riches and right- 
eousness. My fruit is better than gold, yea, than fine gold ; and 
my revenue than choice silver. I lead in the way of righteous- 
ness, in the midst of the paths of judgment ; that I may cause 
those that love me to inherit substance ; and I will fill their 
treasures. 

The Lord possessed me in the beginning of his way, before 
his works of old. T was set up from everlasting, from the be- 
ginning, or ever the earth was. When there were no depths, I 
was brought forth ; when there were no fountains abounding with 
water. Before the mountains were settled ; before the hills 
was I brought forth : while as yet he had not made the earth, 
nor the fields, nor the highest part of the dust of the world. 
When he prepared the heavens, I was there ; when he set a 
compass upon the face of the depth : when he established the 
clouds above : when he strengthened the fountains of the deep : 
when he gave to the sea his decree, that the waters should not 
pass his commandment : when he appointed the foundations of 
the earth : Then I was by him, as one brought up with him ; 
and I was daily his delight, rejoicing always before him ; re- 
oicing in the habitable part of his earth ; and my delights were 
with the sons of men. Now therefore hearken unto me, ye 
children : for blessed are they that keep my ways. Hear in- 
struction and be wise, and refuse it not. Blessed is the man 
that heareth me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the posts 
of my doors. For whoso findeth me findeth life, and shall obtain 
favor of the Lord. But he that sinneth against me wrongeth 
his own soul : all they that hate me love death. 



FAME.— Pollok. 



Of all the phantoms fleeting in the mist 
Of time though meagre all, and ghostly thin, 
Most unsubstantial, unessential shade 
Was earthly Fame. She was a voice alone, 



PERSONIFICATION. 53 

And dwelt upon the noisy tongues of men. 
She never thought, but gabbled ever on, 
Applauding most what least deserved applause. 
The motive, the result, was naught to her. 
The deed alone, though dyed in human gore, 
And steeped in widow's tears, if it stood out 
To prominent display, she talked of much, 
And roared around it with a thousand tongues. 
As changed the wind, her organ, so she changed 
Perpetually ; and whom she praised to-day, 
Vexing his ears with acclamations loud, 
To-morrow blamed, and hissed him out of sight. 

Such was her nature, and her practice such. 
But O ! her voice was sweet to mortal ears, 
And touched so pleasantly the strings of pride 
And vanity, which in the heart of man 
Were ever strung harmonious to her note, 
That many thought, to live without her song 
Was rather death than life. 



GREECE AND ROME.— Story. 

Greece, lovely Greece, ' the land of scholars and the nurse 
of arms,' where sister republics in fair possessions chanted the 
praises of liberty and the gods ; where, and what is she ? For 
two thousand years the oppressor has bound her to the earth. 
Her arts are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are 
but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery ; the fragments of her 
columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruin. 
She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were 
united at Thermopylae and Marathon ; and the tide of her tri- 
umph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was conquered by 
her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own people. 
The man of Macedonia did not the work of destruction. It 
was already done by her own corruptions, banishments, and 
dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced 
in the rising and setting sun, where, and what is she ? The 
eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in 
her decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, and calm as 
in the composure of death. The malaria has but traveled in 
the paths worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen centu-? 
ries have mourned over the loss of her empire. A mortal dis* 

5* 



54 young lady's reader. 

ease was upon her vitals before Caesar had crossed the Rubicon ; 
and Brutus did not restore her health by the deep probings of 
the senate chamber. The Goths, and Vandals, and Huns, the 
swarms of the north, completed only what was already begun 
at home. Romans betrayed Rome. The legions were bought 
and sold ; but the people offered the tribute money. 



DEATH.— Mrs. Hemans. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 

Day is for mortal care, 
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer — 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour, 
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 

"We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain — 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 

Is it when Spring's first gale 
Comes forch to whisper where the violets lie ; 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 



PERSONIFICATION. 55 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 



PSALM CXTV.— David. 

When Israel went up out of Egypt, the house of Jacob from 
a people of strange language, Judah was his sanctuary, and 
Israel his dominion. The sea saw it and fled ; Jordan was 
driven back. The mountains skipped like rams, and the little 
hills like lambs. What ailed thee, O thou sea, that thou fled- 
dest ? thou Jordan, that thou wast driven back ? Ye mountains, 
that ye skipped like rams, and ye little hills, like lambs? 
Tremble, thou earth, at the presence of the Lord, at the pres- 
ence of the God of Jacob ; which turned the rock into a stand- 
ing water, the flint into a fountain of waters. 



THE WINDS.— Miss Godld, 

We come ! we come ! and ye feel our might, 
As we're hastening on in our boundless flight, 
And over the mountains and over the deep, 
Our broad, invisible pinions sweep 
Like the spirit of liberty, wild and free ! 
And ye look on our works, and own 'tis we ; 
Ye call us the winds ; but can ye tell 
Whither we go, or where we dwell 1 
Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power, 
And fell the forest, or fan the flower ; 



56 young lady's header. 

When the harebell moves, and the rush is bent, 

When the tower's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent 

As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave, 

Or hurry its crew to a watery grave ; 

And ye say it is we ; but can ye trace 

The wandering winds to their secret place ? 

And, whether our breath be loud and high, 

Or come in a soft and balmy sigh — 

Our threatnings fill the soul with fear,- 

Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear 

With music aerial — still 't is we. 

And ye list, and ye look ; but what do ye see 1 

Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace, 

Or waken one note, when our numbers cease 1 

Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand ; 

We come and we go at his command. 

Though joy or sorrow may mark our track, 

His will is our guide, and we look not back ; 

And if, in our wrath, ye would turn us away, 

Or win us in gentlest airs to play, 

Then lift up your hearts to him who binds 

Or frees, as he will, the obedient winds ' 



ATHEISM.— Coleridge. 

Bold with joy, 
Forth from his lonely hiding-place, 
(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism, 
Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon, 
Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close, 
And hooting at the glorious sun in heaven, 
Cries out, " Where is it." 



POETRY.— Wolfe. 

From the beginning she was one of the ministering spirits 
that stand around the throne of God, to issue forth at his word, 
and do his errands upon earth. Sometimes she has been the her- 
ald of an offending nation's downfall ; and often has she been sent 
commissioned to transgressing man, with prophecy and warn- 
ing upon her lips ; — but (at other times) she has been entrusted 



PERSONIFICATION. 57 

with " glad tidings of great joy ;" and poetry was the anticipa- 
ting apostle, the prophetic evangelist, whose " feet were beau- 
tiful upon the mountains — that published salvation — that said 
unto Zion, thy God reigneth !" — Yet has she been accused of 
co-operating with luxury and fostering the seeds of private in- 
dolence and public supineness ; she has been stigmatised as the 
origin of moral deformity, because she often condescends to at- 
tend upon guilty man ; and where virtue has failed to with- 
draw him from his vices, has softened their effects, and preven- 
ted him from falling into brutality. The spoils of Persia would 
have relaxed the energies of Greece although poetry had never 
descended from her throne on high to bless the visions of Gre- 
cian enthusiasm ; and happy, polished, enchanting Greece, 
the idol of our fondest imagination, would have sunk into obliv- 
ion — into stupid luxury and mindless indolence. Thus, also, 
when the genius of Roman independence was abandoning the 
world to Octavius, and retiring from his empire into everlasting 
exile, the muse collected all her energies to bestow departing 
consolation ; she wrought a moral miracle to arrest the head- 
long degeneracy of Rome, and raised up Augustus to counter- 
act the crimes that Octavius had committed. 



MIRTH.— Milton, 

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful jollity, 
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, 
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
Sport, that wrinkled care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his sides : 
Come, and trip it, as you go, 
On the light fantastic toe ; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee, 
The mountain nymph, sweet liberty ; 
And, if I give thee honor due, 
Mirth admit me of thy crew, 
To live with her, and live with thee, 
In unreproved pleasures free ; 
To hear the lark begin his flight, 
And singing startle the dull night 



58 youjs t g lady's reader. 

From his watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good morrow, 
Through the sweet brier, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine : 
While the cock, with lively din, 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin. 



ENGLAND IN 1814.— Alison. 

Dear, even to the savage heart, is the land of his fathers ; dear 
to the citizen of civilized ages are the institutions of national 
wisdom, and the monuments of national glory; but upon no hu- 
man heart did the claims of his country ever fall so deep and so 
irresistible, as they now do upon the citizens of this country. 
Other nations have preceeded her in the road of arts and arms ; 
— other nations have wreathed around their brows the laurels of 
science, and the palms of victory: But the high destiny to 
which she has of late been called, no other nation has ever 
shared with her. She has been called to guard the fortunes of 
the human race ; to preserve, amid her waves, the sacred flame 
that was to relume the world ; and, like the cherubim that 
watched the gates of paradise, to turn every way her naming 
sword against the foes of God and man. These were her du- 
ties, and nobly has she fulfilled them. Through every dark, and 
every disastrous year; — while nation after nation sunk around 
her ; while monarchs bent their imperial heads beneath the yoke, 
and the pulse of moral nature seemed to stand still in ignomin- 
ious terror ; she alone hath stood insensible to fear, and inca- 
pable of submission. It is her hand, that amid the darkness of 
the storm hath still steadfastly pointed the road to liberty ; it is 
her treasures which have clothed every trembling people with 
armor for the combat ; it is her sons, her gallant sons, who have 
rushed into the van of battle, and first broke the spell that par- 
alized the world ; and in these recent days, it is her command- 
ing voice that has awakened the slumbering nations of mankind, 
and sent them on their glorious march, conquering and to con- 
quer. And now, in the hour of her triumph, — now, when all 
that is brave or generous in the human race, bow before her, — 
where is she to be found ? And what is the attitude in which 



PERSONIFICATION. 59 

she presents herself to her children ? Oh ! not in the attitude 
of human pride, or human arrogance ; not with the laurels of 
victory upon her brow, or with troops of captives following her 
chariot wheels ; it is the attitude of pious thankfulness ; with 
hands uplifted in praise, and eyes downcast in gratitude ; it is 
before the Eternal throne that she bows her victorious head, and 
casts her crown of glory upon the ground, and calls her children 
to kneel along with her, and to praise the Father of nature that 
he hath selected her to be the instrument of his mercy to man- 
kind. These are triumphs to which the history of the world has 
no parallel. In the long line of her splendor, what hour is to 
be compared with this ? Which of us does not feel somewhat 
of her glory to be reflected upon our own heads 1 And what 
British heart is there which does not pray that such may be 
ever her name and her character among mankind ? 



THE CLOUDS— Grenviixe Mellen. 

O clouds ! ye ancient messengers, 

Old couriers of the sky, 
Treading, as in primeval years, 

Yon still immensity ! 
In march how wildly beautiful 

Along the deep ye tower, 
Begirt, as when from chaos dull 

Ye loomed in pride and power, 
To crown creation's morning hour. 

Ye perish not, ye passing clouds ! 

But with the speed of time, 
Ye flit your shadowy shapes, like shrouds, 

Oe'r each emerging clime ; 
And thus on broad and furlless wings 

Ye float in light along, 
Where every jewelled planet sings 

Its clear eternal song, 
Over the path our friends have gone ! 

Against that deep and peerless blue 

Ye hold your journeying — 
That silent birth-place of the dew, 

Where life and lustre spring. 



60 young lady's reader. 

And then, how goldenly ye shine 

On your immortal way, 
Sailing through realms so near divine, 

Under the fount of clay ! 
O'er ye, concentered glories play. 

But when, to trail this sullen earth 

Ye stoop from higher air, 
And the glad regions of your birth, 

To sweep the mountains bare, 
In dim funereal pomp ye lower — 

Oppressing" like a pall — 
Your brows of beauty veiled in power, 

Whose shadows round us fall — 
Ye brood like demons o'er the ball. 

So our life's hopes and promises 

In dreamy distance lie ; 
So man a coming glory sees 

Along his visioned sky — 
So as those rainbow joys come on, 

Borne with his fleeting days, 
That bright futurity is gone, 

And dullness dims his gaze — 
Night gathers on his noontide blaze. 

Ye posters of the wakeless air ! 

How silently ye glide 
Down the unfathomed atmosphere 

That deep — deep, azure tide ! 
And thus in giant pomp ye go, 

On high and reachless range, 
Above earth's gladness and its woe, 

Through centuries of change, 
Your destiny how lone and strange ! 

Ye bear the bow of beauty — flung 
On your triumphal path, 

Splendid as first in joy it hung 
O'er God's retiring wrath. 

The promise and the covenant 
Are written on your brow — 



PERSONIFICATION. 61 

The mercy to the sinful sent, 
Is bending o'er them now. 
Ye bear the memory of the vow. 

Ye linger with the silver stars, 

Ye pass before the sun — 
Ye marshal elements to wars, 

And when the roar is done, 
Ye lift your volumed robes in light, 

And wave them to the world, 
Like victory flags o'er scattered fight, 

Brave banners all unfurled — 
Still there, though rent and tempest hurled. 

Ye bear the living thunder out, 

Ye pageants of the sky ! 
Answering with trumpets' battling shout 

The lightning's scorching eye. 
Pale faces cluster under ye, 

Beneath your withering look, 
And shaking hearts bow fearfully, 

At your sublime rebuke ; 
Has man his mockery forsook ! 

And then, in still and summer hours, 

When men sit weary down, 
Ye come o'er heated fields and flowers, 

With shadowy pinions on— 
Ye hover where the fervent earth 

A saddened silence fills, 
And, mourning o'er its stricken mirth, 

Ye weep along the hills. 
Then how the wakened landscape thrills ! 

And thus ye circle countless spheres, 

Old spirits of the skies ! 
The same through nature's smiles and tears, 

Ye rose on paradise. 
I hear a voice from out your shrouds, 

That tells me of decay — 
For though ye stay not, hurtling clouds ! 

Till the last gathering day, 
Ye pass like life's dim dreams away. 
6 



62 



ALLEGORY. 



PARADISE OF YOUTH.— Bulwer. 

At length the traveler emerged from a mighty forest, through 
which, for several days, he had threaded his Aveary way ; 
and beautiful beyond thought was the landscape that broke 
upon his view. A plain covered with the richest verdure lay 
before him ; through the trees that here and there darkened 
over the emerald ground, were cut alleys, above which arched 
festoons of many-colored flowers, whose hues sparkled amid 
the glossy foliage, and whose sweets steeped the air as with a 
bath. A stream, clear as crystals, flowed over golden sands : 
and, wherever the sward was greenest, gathered itself into de- 
licious fountains, and sent upwards dazzling spray, as if to catch 
the embraces of the sun, whose beams kissed it in delight. 

The wanderer paused in ectasy ; a sense of luxurious rapture 
which he had never before experienced crept into his soul. 
" Behold !" murmured he, " my task is already done : and Aden, 
the land of happiness and of youth lies before me !" 

"While he thus spake, a sweet voice answered — " Yes, O 
happy stranger ! — thy task is done : this is the land of happi- 
ness and of youth !" 

He turned, and a maiden of dazzling beauty was by his side. 
" Enjoy the present," said she, "and so wilt thou defy the future. 
Ere yet the world was, love brooded over the unformed shell, 
till from beneath the shadow of his wings burst forth the life of 
the young creation. Love, then, is the true God, and whoso 
serveth him he admits into the mysteries of a temple erected 
before the stars. Behold ! thou enterest now upon the thresh- 
hold of the temple ; thou art in the land of happiness and 
youth !" 

Enchanted with these words, Arasmanes gave himself up to 
the sweet intoxication they produced upon his soul. He suffer- 
ed the nymph to lead him deeper into the valley : and now, 
from a thousand vistas in the wood, trooped forth beings, some 
of fantastic, some of the most harmonious shapes. There was 
the satyr and the faun, and the youthful Bacchus — mixed with 
the multiform deities of India, and the wild objects of Egyptian 
worship ; but more numerous' than all were the choral nymphs, 
that spiritualized the reality, by incoporating the dreams, of 



ALLEGORY. 63 

beauty ; and wherever he looked, one laughing face seemed to 
peer forth from the glossy leaves, and to shed, as from its own 
joyous yet tender aspect, a tenderness and a joy over all things ; 
and he asked how this being, that seemed to have the power of 
multiplying itself everywhere, was called ? And its name was 
Eros. 

For a time, the length of which he knew not — for in that land 
no measurement of time was kept — Arasmanes was fully 'per- 
suaded that it was Aden to which he had attained. He felt his 
youth as if it were something palpable ; every thing was new 
to him — even in the shape of the leaves, and the whisper of the 
odorous airs, he found wherewithal to marvel at and admire. 
Enamoured of the maiden that had first addressed him, at her 
slightest wish (and she was full of all beautiful caprices,) he 
was ready to explore even the obscurest recess in the valley, 
which now appeared to him unbounded. He never wearied of 
a single hour. He felt as if weariness were impossible ; and, 
with every instant, he repeated to himself, " In the land of hap- 
piness and youth I am a dweller." 

One day as he was conversing with his beloved, and gazing 
upon her face, he was amazed to behold that, since the last time 
he had gazed upon it, a wrinkle had planted itself upon the ivory 
surface of her brow ; and, even while half doubting the evidence 
of his eyes, new wrinkles seemed slowly to form over the fore- 
head, and the transparent roses of her cheek to wane and fade ! 
He concealed, as well as he could, the mortification and wonder 
that he experienced at this strange phenomenon ; and no longer 
daring to gaze upon a face from which before he had drank de- 
light as from a fountain, he sought excuses to separate himself 
from her, and wandered, confused and bewildered with his own 
thoughts, into the wood. The fauns, and the dryads, and the 
youthful face of Bacchus, and the laughing aspect of Eros, came 
athwart him from time to lime ; yet the wonder that had clothed 
them with fascination was dulled within his breast. Nay, he 
thought the poor wine-god had a certain vulgarity in his air, and 
he almost yawned audibly in the face of Eros. 

And now, whenever he met his favorite nymph — who was 
as the queen of the valley — he had the chagrin to perceive that 
the wrinkles deepened with every time ; youth seemed rapidly 
to desert her ; and, instead of a maiden scarcely escaped from 
childhood, it was an old coquet that he had been so desperately 
in love with. 

One day he could not resist saying to her, though with some 
embarrassment— 



64 young lady's reader. 

" Pray, dearest, is it many years that you have inhabited this 
valley V 

•' Oh, indeed, many!" said she, smiling. 

" You are not, then, very young," rejoined Arasmanes ungal- 
lantly. 

" What !" cried the nymph, changing color — ' Do you begin 
to discover age in my countenance ? Has any wrinkle yet 
appeared upon my brow ? You are silent. Oh, cruel Fate ! 
will you not spare even this lover V And the poor nymph 
burst into tears. 

" My dear love," said Arasmanes, painfully, " it is true that 
time begins to creep upon you ; but my friendship shall be 
eternal." 

Scarcely had he uttered these words when the nymph, rising, 
fixed upon him a long, sorrowful look, and then with a loud cry 
vanished from his sight. Thick darkness, as a veil, fell over 
the plains ; the novelty of life, with its attendant, poetry, was 
gone from the wanderer's path for ever. 

A sudden sleep crept over his senses. He awoke coufused 
and unrefreshed, and a long and gradual ascent, but over moun- 
tains green indeed, and watered by many streams gushing from 
the heights, stretched before him. Of the valley he had mista- 
ken for Aden not a vestige remained. He was once more on 
the real solid earth. 



TIME AND BEAUTY.— Literary Gazette. 

Ruthless Time, who waits for no man, 
But with scythe, and wings, and glass, 

Lies in wait for youth and woman, 
Saw one morning, Beauty pass. 

O'er the flowers she bounded lightly, 

Smiling as a summer's day ; 
Time, who marked her eyes beam brightly, 

Chose the fair one for his prey. 

"Maid," he rudely cried, " good morrow! 

Knowest thou not what rights are mine T 
Beauty 't is my wont to borrow ; 

And I come to gather thine." 

" I'll not yield it," cried she boldly, 
" Monster do not draw so nigh % % 



ALLEGORY. 65 



? Come with me," he answered coldly, 
" Go with thee," said she, " not I." 

Time his scythe extended o'er her, 
Threatening with his withered hand; 

And his hour-glass shook before her, 
Pointing to the running sand. 

But the maiden all intrepid, 
Answered, laughing carelessly, 

" I am young, and thou decrepid — 
What hast thou to do with me ?" 

Time replied with purpose steady, 
" Wrinkles I must lend thy brow." 

Beauty cried, " I'm not yet ready," 
Flying cried, "not ready now." 

Time pursued with will unshaken ; 

Beauty fled with rapid feet, 
Yet was soon well nigh o'ertaken, 

For the old man's wings are fleet. 

But the maiden, nothing fearful, 
Calls on wisdom's power divine ; 

Wisdom comes with aspect cheerful — 
Leads her to her ancient shrine. 

There her eye all passion loses, 
But with reason shines serene ; 

Truth its sober charm diffuses 
Gently o'er her softened mien. 

Thought restrains her youthful wildness 
Calmness holy hopes bestow ; 

On her face, love, joined to mildness, 
Blends its light with virtue's glow. 

Time saw heavenly graces cluster, 
Left, o'erawed — his will undone ; 

Beauty smiled in angel lustre — 

Time was vanquished ; Beauty won. 
6* 



66 



THE WORLD AND INTELLECTUAL PROWESS.— CoIeridge. 

Here is the World, a female figure approaching at the head of 
a train of willing or giddy followers : — her air and deportment 
are at once careless, remiss, self-satisfied, and haughty : — and 
there is Intellectual Prowess, with a pale cheek and serene brow, 
leading in chains Truth, her beautiful and modest captive. The 
one makes her salutation with a discourse of ease, pleasure, 
freedom, and domestic tranquility ; or, if she invite to labor, it is 
labor in the busy and beaten track, with assurance of the com- 
placent regards of parents, friends, and of those with whom we 
associate. The promise also may be upon her lip of the huzzas 
of the multitude, of the smile of kings, and the munificent rewards 
of senates. The other does not venture to hold forthany of these 
allurememts ; she does not conceal from him whom she ad- 
dresses the impediments, the disappointments, the ignorance and 
prejudice which her follower will have to encounter, if devoted 
when duty calls, to active life ; and if to contemplative, she lays 
nakedly before him, a scheme of solitary and unremitting labor, 
a life of entire neglect perhaps, or assuredly a life exposed to 
scorn, insult, persecution, and hatred ; but cheered by encour- 
agement from a grateful few, by applauding conscience, and by 
a prophetic anticipation, perhaps, of fame — a late, though last- 
ing consequence. Of these two, each in this manner soliciting 
you to become her adherent, you doubt not which to prefer, — 
but oh ! the thought of moment is not preference, but the degree 
of preference ; the passionate and pure choice, the inward sense 
of absolute and unchangeable devotion. 



THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES.— Miss J. Taylor, 

What were they ? — you ask ; you shall presently see ; 
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea ; 
O no ; — for such properties wondrous had they, 
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh, 
Together with articles small or immense, 
From mountains or planets to atoms of sense ; 
Naught was there so bulky but there it could lay, 
And naught so etherial but there it would stay, 
And nought so reluctant but in it must go : — 
All which some examples more clearly will show. 



ALLEGORY. 67 

The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire, 
Which retained all the wit that had ever been there ; 
As a weight he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf, 
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief ; 
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell, 
As to bound like a ball on the top of his cell. 

Next time he put in Alexander the Great, 
With a garment that Dorcas had made — for a weight ; 
And though clad in armor from sandals to crown, 
The hero rose up, and the garment went down. 

A long row of alms-houses, amply endowed 

By a well esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud, 

Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest 

By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest ; 

Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, 

And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a bounce. 

By further experiments, (no matter how,) 

He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough. 

A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale, 

Though balanced by only a tenpenny nail. 

A lord and a lady went up at full sail, 

When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale. 

Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl, — 

Ten counselor's wigs full of powder and curl, — 

All heaped in one balance, and swinging from thence, 

Weighed less than some atoms of candor and sense ; — 

A first-water diamond with brilliants begirt, 

Than one good potatoe just washed from the dirt ; — 

Yet not mountains of silver and gold would suffice, 

One pearl to out-weigh — 't was the 'pearl of great price !' 

At last the whole world was bowled in at the grate 
With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight; — 
When the former sprung up with so strong a rebuff, 
That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof — 
While the scale with the soul in 't so mightily fell, 
That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell. 



68 
APOSTROPHE 



THE STARS.— Croly. 

Ye stars, bright legions, that before all time, 
Camped on yon plain of sapphire, what shall tell 

Your burning myriads, but the eye of Him 

Who bade through heaven your golden chariots wheel ? 

Yet who earth-born can see your hosts, nor feel 
Immortal impulses. Eternity ! 

What wonder if the o'erwrought soul shall reel 
With its own weight of thought, and the wild eye 
See fate within your tracks of sleepless glory lie ? 

For ye behold the Mightiest. From that steep 
What ages have ye worshipped round your king ! 

Ye heard his trumpet sounded o'er the sleep 
Of earth ; ye heard the morning angels ring 

Upon that orb now o'er me quivering, 
The gaze of Adam fixed from paradise ; 

The wanderers of the deluge saw it spring- 
Above the mountain surge, and hailed its rise, 
Lighting their lonely track with hope's celestial dyes. 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.— Mrs. Hemans. 

From the bright stars, or from the viewless air, 
Or from some world unreached by human thought, 
Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there, 
And if thy visions with the past be fraught, 
Answer me, answer me ! 

Have we not communed here of life and death ? 
Have we not said that love, such love as ours, 
Was not to perish as a rose's breath, 
To melt away like song from festal bowers ? 
Answer, oh ! answer me ! 

Thine eye's last light was mine — the soul that shone 
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze — 



APOSTROPHE. 69 

Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, 
Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze ? 
Hear, hear, and answer me ! 

Thy voice — its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 
Thrilled through the tempest of the parting strife, 
Like a faint breeze : — oh ! from that music flown, 
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life, 
But once oh! answer me ! 

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, 
In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep, 
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush, 
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep- 
Spirit ! then answer me ! 

By the remembrance of our blended prayer ; 
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet ; 
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair; — 
Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet ; 
Answer me, answer me ! 

The grave is silent: — and the far-off sky, 
And the deep midnight — silent all, and lone ! 
Oh ! if thy buried love make no reply, 
What voice has earth ? — Hear, pity, speak, mine own ! 
Answer me, answer me ! 



EXTRACT FROM THE PRESENT CRISIS— Hall, 

I cannot but imagine the virtuous heroes, legislators, and 
patriots of every age and country are bending from their elevated 
seats to witness this contest, as if they were incapable, till it be 
brought to a favorable issue, of enjoying their eternal repose. 
Enjoy that repose, illustrious mortals ! Your mantle fell when 
you ascended ; and thousands, inflamed with your spirit, and 
impatient to tread in your steps, are ready to swear by him that 
sitteth upon the throne, and liveth forever and ever, they will pro- 
tect freedom in her last asylum, and never desert that cause 
which you sustained by your labors and cemented with your 
blood. And thou, sole Ruler among the children of men, to 
whom the shields of the earth belong, gird on thy sword, thou 



70 young lady's reader. 

Most Mighty : go forth with our hosts in the day of battle ! Im- 
part, in addition to their hereditary valor, that confidence of suc- 
cess which springs from thy presence ! Pour into their hearts 
the spirit of departed heroes ! Inspire them with thine own; 
and while led by thy hand, and fighting under thy banners, open 
thou their eyes to behold in every valley, and in every plain, what 
the prophet beheld by the same illumination — chariots of fire, 
and horses of fire ! Then shall the strong man be as tow, and the 
maker of it as a spark ; and they shall both burn together, and none 
shall quench them. 



HOPE.— Campbell. 

Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers burn, 
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! 
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour : 
Oh ! then, thy kingdom comes ! immortal power ! 
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly, 
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! 
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
The morning dream of life's eternal day — 
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, 
And all the phoenix spirit burn within ! 

Oh! deep enchanting prelude to repose, 
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! 
Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, 
It is a dread and awful thing to die! 
Mysterious worlds, untraveled by the sun, 
Where time's far-wandering tide has never run, 
From your unfathomed shades and viewless spheres, 
A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 
'T is heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, 
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud! 
While nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, 
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
And like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod 
The roaring waves, and called upon his God, 
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
And shrieks and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 

Daughter of faith ! awake, arise, illume 
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ; 



APOSTROPHE. 71 

Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll 
Cimmerean darkness on the parting soul ! 
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay, 
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! 
The strife is o'er — the pangs of nature close, 
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes, 
Hark! as the spirit eyes with eagle gaze, 
The noon of heaven undazzled by the blaze, 
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ; 
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail 
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, 
When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still 
Watched on the holy towers of Z ion's hill! 

Soul of the just ! companion of the dead ! 
Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ? 
Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, 
Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; 
Doomed on his airy path awhile to burn, 
And doomed like thee, to travel and return. — 
Hark! from the world's exploding center driven, 
With sounds that shook the firmament of heaven, 
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, 
On bickering wheels, and adamantine car ; 
From planet whirled to planet more remote, 
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought ; 
But wheeling homeward when his course is run, 
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun ! 
So hath the traveler of earth unfurled 
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ; 
And o'er the path by mortal never trod, 
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God ! 



EXTRACT FROM AN EULOGY ON LA FAYETTE.— E. Everett* 

You have now assembled within these celebrated walls, to 
perform the last duties of respect and love, on the birth-day of 
your benefactor, beneath that roof which has resounded of old 
with the master voices of American renown. The spirit of the 
departed is in high communion with that spirit of the place ; — 
the temple worthy of the new name which we now behold in- 



12 YOUNG LADY'S READER. 

scribed on its walls. Listen, Americans, to the lessons which 
seem borne to us on the very air we breathe, while we perform 
these dutiful rites ! Ye winds that wafted the Pilgrims to the 
land of promise, fan, in their children's hearts, the love of free- 
dom ; — Blood, which our fathers shed, cry from the ground ; — 
Echoing arches of this renowned hall, whisper back the voices 
of other days ; Glorious Washington, break the long silence of 
that votive canvass; — Speak, speak, marble lips, teach us the 
love of liberty protected by laio ! 



THE WOUNDED EAGLE.— Mrs. Hemans. 

Eagle ! this is not thy sphere ! 
Warrior bird ! what seekest thou here 1 
Wherefore by the fountain's brink 
Doth thy royal pinion sink ? 
Wherefore on the violet's bed 
Layest thou thus thy drooping head ? 
Thou that hold'st the blast in scorn, 
Thou that wear'st the wings of morn ! 

Eagle ! wilt thou not arise ? 
Look upon thine own bright skies ! 
Lift thy glance ! the fiery sun 
There his pride of place hath won ! 
And the mountain lark is there, 
And sweet sound hath filled the air ; 
Hast thou left that realm on high 1 
Oh ! it can be but to die ! 

Eagle, eagle ! thou hast bowed 
From thine empire o'er the cloud ! 
Thou that hadst ethereal birth, 
Thou hast stooped too near the earth, 
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee, 
And the toils of death have bound thee ! 
-^-Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, 
Creature of a kingly race ? 

Wert thou weary of thy throne 1 
Was the sky's dominion lone ? 



HYPERBOLE. ^3 



Chill and lone it well might be, 
Yet that mighty wing was free ! 
Now the chain is o'er it cast, 
From thy heart the blood flows fast, 
— Wo for gifted souls and high ! 
Is not such their destiny ? 



HYPERBOLE. 



CLEOPATRA UPON THE CYDNUS.— Shakspbare. 

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, 
Burned on the water : the poop was beaten gold : 
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that 
The winds were lovesick with them : the oars were silver : 
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made 
The water, which they beat, to follow faster, 
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, 
It beggared all description : she did lie 
In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue,) 
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see 
The fancy outwork nature : on each side her, 
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, 
With diverse-colored fans, whose wind did seem 
To glowihe delicate cheeks which they did cool, 
And what they undid, did. 
Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, 
And made their bends adornings : at the helm 
A seeming mermaid steers : the silken tackle 
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands 
That rarely frame the office. From the barge 
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
Of the adjacent wharves. The city cast 
Her people out upon her ; and Antony, 
Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone, 

7 



74 young lady's reader. 

Whistling to the air ; which, but for vacancy, 
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, 
And made a gap in nature. 



THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE.— Ben Jonson, 

I will have all my beds blown up, not stuffed. 

Down is too hard, and then my oval room 

Filled with such pictures, as Tiberius took 

From Elephantis, and dull Aretine 

But coldly imitated — My mists 

I'll have of perfume, vapored 'bout the room, 

To lose ourselves in, and my baths, like pits, 

To fall into, from whence we will come forth, 

And roll us dry in gossamer and roses, — 

My meat shall all come in Indian shells, 

Dishes of agate, set in gold, and studded 

With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies, 

The tongues of carp, dormice, and camel's heels 

Boiled in the spirit of sol and dissolved pearl, 

(Apicius' diet 'gainst the epilepsie,) 

And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber, 

Headed with diamond and carbuncle. 

My foot-boy shall eat pheasants ; I myself will have 

The beards of barbels served instead of salads. 

, My shirts 

I'll have of taffeta sarcenet, soft and light 
As cobwebs, and for all my other raiment, 
It shall be such as might provoke the Persian, 
Were he to teach the world riot anew. 
My gloves of fish's and bird's skins perfumed 
With gums of paradise, and eastern air. 

Q. And do you think to have the stone with this ? 

A. No, I do think to have all this with the stone. 



LORD BYRON.— Boston Bard. 

" His bou] is dark as Erebus." 

Satan his harp to Byron gave, 
And said — " Go, sweep it well ; 

Thy throne, the murderer's reeking grave, 
Thy theme, the feats of hell. 



HYPERBOLE. 75 

To misery's child new misery add — 

Tell him no pardon's given ; 
Drive, drive the shuddering sinner mad, 

And break his hold on heaven. 

Sweep, sweep the lyre to godless themes — 

For vice a chaplet twine ; 
Of horrors be thy waking dreams, — 

Of horrors that are mine. 

Of agonies in hell that rise — 

Of darkness that is felt ; 
Of reeling worlds — of sundering skies — ■ 

Of terrors yet unspelt. 

Dark be the picture — let no light, 

Not one dim ray illume ; 
Dark, dark as never-ending night, 

As self-destroyer's doom ! 

Man's hope, man's peace forever mar, 

Eclipse religion's sun ; 
Tread out salvation's golden star, 

And see thy work well done !" 

He said ; his lordship took the lyre, 

And swept the strings along, 
While Satan stole from heaven the fire, 

And tuned the godless song ! 



A WORD.— Byron. 

Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — -could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
And that one word were lightning, I would speak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 



76 



CLIMAX 



MOTIVES TO REFORM.— Beecher. 

Let me entreat the unhappy men who are the special objects 
of legal restraint, to cease from their evil ways, and, by volun- 
tary reformation, supersede the necessity of coersion and pun- 
ishment. Why will you die 1 What fearful thing is there in 
heaven, which makes you flee from that world ? What fasci- 
nating object in hell, that excites such frenzied exertion to burst 
every band, and overleap every mound, and force your way 
downward to the chambers of death ? Stop, I beseech you, 
and repent, and Jesus Christ shall blot out your sins, and re- 
member your transgressions no more. Stop, and the host who 
follow your steps shall turn, and take hold on the path of life. 
Stop, and the wide waste of sin shall cease, and the song of 
angels shall be heard again ; " Glory to God in the highest ; 
on earth peace, good will to men." Stop, and instead of wail- 
ing with the lost, you shall join the multitudes which no man 
can number, in the ascription of blessing, and honor, and glory, 
and power, to him that sitteth on the throne, and to the Lamb, 
forever and ever. 



DESIRE OF ESTEEM, AND LOVE OF ADMIRATION.-Dwight. 

The desire of esteem is, in its nature, capable of being just 
and vindicable. It may be, it often is, no other than the desire 
of being believed by others to have thought and acted well ; to 
have done our duty ; to have conformed to the dictates of con- 
science, and the word of God. In this case, if confined with- 
in the limits prescribed in the sacred volume, it is virtuous. In 
that volume we are taught, that a good name is better than great 
riches, and loving favor, than silver and gold. A good name is 
nothing but the character testified of us by others, when they 
believe that we have done our duty : and such a testimony is by 
the voice of God, declared to be better than great riches. Ac- 
cordingly, it is valued and sought, and the scriptures intended 
that it should be thus valued and sought by good men. The es- 
teem of the wise and virtuous, commonly followed by that of 



CLIMAX. 77 

other men, is of more worth than we can easily calculate ; and 
forms no small part of the happiness found on this side of the 
grave. Nay, the esteem of angels, and of the spirits of just 
men made perfect, will constitute an essential part of the en- 
joyments of heaven. 

Rational esteem is given only to good qualities, displayed in 
good conduct. The sober desire of such esteem will therefore 
prompt him, in whom it exists, to the attainment, the increase, 
and the exhibition, of such qualities ; or, in other words, will 
urge him to the acquisition of the best character. 

But the love of admiration is a far more common attribute of 
the human mind ; and, if I mistake not, is never virtuous. The 
praise which we covet for our talents, accomplishments, wealth, 
splendor, power, or influence, is in every case, which I have 
been able to figure to myself, sinfully coveted. This is the very 
desire of distinction which our first parents cherished in their 
apostasy. It is the ambition which has disgraced and afflicted 
mankind from the beginning ; under the efforts of which the 
earth has groaned and travailed in pain together, till the present 
hour. It is the spirit, which, to a vast extent, has goaded the 
usurper on to the throne, through treachery and blood ; and spur- 
red the hero to conflagration and slaughter. It is not always 
made the ultimate object ; but is intended, in many instances, to 
subserve the purposes of other base and selfish affections ; the 
acquisition of wealth, power, and pleasure. 

No passion of the human mind is stronger than this. After 
it has been sufficiently indulged to become a habit, it engrosses 
all the energy of the soul ; or, perhaps, more properly, becomes 
its whole energy ; and converts all the faculties, and all the 
efforts, to its own purposes. In this case the soul is changed 
into a mere mass of ambition : and nothing in heaven, or in 
earth, is felt to possess the least value, except as it may be sub- 
servient to the dictates of this master passion. Alexander, un- 
der its influence, ravaged a world, and sighed and wept for 
another. In his steps has trodden every military madman 
down to the present hour : and in the same steps, before them 
all, walked Satan, the first maniac ever seen in the universe ; 
when he disdained the high estate to which he had been origin- 
ally exalted, and left his own habitation ; or, in other words, the 
magnificent station assigned him by God, because it was not 
lofty enough to satisfy his desire of distinction. There is no 
excess, no length, to which this affection will not go. There is 
no authority of God or man, against which it will not rebel ; 

7* 



78 young lady's reader, 

no law, which it will not violate ; no obligation, which it will 
not burst asunder; and no motive, furnished by time or eterni- 
ty, by heaven or hell, which it will not overcome. Wicked- 
ness can in no other form become more intense ; nor its plans 
more vast; nor its obstinacy more enduring; nor its ravages 
more extensive, or more dreadful. 



EARTHLY GRADATIONS.— Taylor. 

Let us look then to the widely-severed ranks of an Asiatic 
empire. — There is first its wretched and vilified class, upon 
which the superincumbent structure of the social system press- 
es so heavily as almost to crush existence ; — often actually to 
crush it ; and always to render life undesirable. The urgent 
wants of nature, never provided for beyond the present mo- 
ment — the most abhorrent sustenance, furtively snatched from 
the dust ; while contempt, servitude, and pain, stand by to em- 
bitter the insufficient meal ! Shall these abjects — these vic- 
tims — these outcasts know any thing of pleasure ? Yes, even 
these shall snatch a joy ; for human nature does not readily 
throw off its instinct of happiness. But pleasure to such must 
be intemperate and frantic ; because hurried and stolen : — the 
hour of enjoyment (if enjoyment it should be called) is as 
murky, as it must be — hemmed in before and behind by neces- 
sities and woes. Or we may turn aside to gaze upon the hovel 
which serves as the last retreat of wretchedness, and where in- 
dolent misery, bred by vice upon despair, finds a home : to 
such (alas that in fact there are such,) to such the common air 
has no balm — the light of day no brightness — nature no boon. 
Spring, with its bright mornings and its flowers, and summer 
with its noons of fervor and fruits and pastimes, and autumn 
with its golden abundance and luxuries, bring no smile, no 
change : — the round of the year is a winter. What is that 
word joy to such 1 — they know it not even afar off, by sight 
or hearing : — or if ever they taste a reckless bowl, it is one in 
which death has shed some new anguish for to-morrow. 

To these unfortunates — the helots of mankind, more or less 
numerous in every community, according to the viciousness or 
rectitude of its principles, (absolutely wanting in none,) succeeds 
the class that, as a broad foundation, sustains the edifice of 
society. But of this higher class all that can well be said is, 



CLIMAX. 79 

that the most terrible evils are just kept at bay by incessant 
efforts. Now for a moment, perhaps, the foe is driven to a 
little distance ; and a breathing-time is secured ; — hope alights 
at the threshold in her hurried course to bless more favored 
homes. — Comfort makes a longer stay. But we dare hardly 
speak of happiness as belonging to this stage of life ; for life is 
still a warfare that has no truce. 

In the third stage of society, as we ascend, man is found so 
far to have gained advantage upon want, as that his home is no 
longer its residence. Woe and fear do indeed visit his home ; 
but existence is not the prey of either. Enjoyment is seen 
there, and courted daily. Pleasure and comfort are entertain- 
ed. Ease and indulgence are not unknown, and take their 
turn with serious cares. 

But we must look higher for the climax of earthly good ; and 
shall find it when we visit the palaces and halls where reside 
beauty, honor, favor ; with art, splendor, revelry ; — where the 
elastic power which high privilege draws from security and 
abundance, gives grace to the human form, and seems to ani- 
mate every faculty. In these mansions of delight, if sorrow 
(treasonable intruder) ever sets his foot, he is instantly disgui- 
sed in pomps and drapery, that his palid visage and shrivelled 
form may not offend the eye. Even death comes to palaces in 
an obsequious livery of plumes, and velvet, and cloth of gold ! 



THE APOSTLES.— Massilon. 

They went from city to city, from province to province, from 
nation to nation ; they dispersed themselves to the extremities 
of the earth ; they attacked abuses the most ancient, and the 
most authorized ; they took from the most barbarous people the 
idols which their ancestors had long worshiped ; they over- 
threw altars which the incense and the homage of many ages 
had rendered respectable ; they preached the opprobrium and 
the foolishness of the cross, to the most polished nations, who 
prided themselves in their eloquence, their philosophy, and their 
wisdom. The obstacles which every thing presented to their 
zeal, instead of discouraging them, animated them, and seemed 
to announce to them success ; the whole world conspired 
against them, and they were stronger than the world ; crosses 
and gibbets were shown to them to compel them to be silent, 
but they replied, that they could not forbear to publish what 



80 young lady's reader. 

they had seen and heard ; and they proclaimed upon the house 
tops what they were forbidden to trust to the ear in private. 
They expired under the hand of public executioners ; new tor- 
ments were invented to exterminate them, and with them the 
doctrine which they preached; but their blood still preached it 
after their death ; nay, the more the earth was inundated with 
it, the more new disciples to the gospel did it produce. 



OUR COUNTRY.— Webster. 

And let the sacred obligations which have devolved on this 
generation, and on us, sink deep into our hearts. Those are 
daily dropping from among us, who established our liberty and 
our government. The great trust now descends to new hands. 
Let us apply ourselves to that which is presented to us, as our 
appropriate object. We can win no laurels in a war for inde- 
pendence. Earlier and worthier hands have gathered them all. 
Nor are there places for us by the side of Solon, and Alfred, 
and other founders of states. Our fathers have filled them. 
But there remains to us a great duty of defense and preserva- 
tion ; and there is opened to us, also, a noble pursuit, to which 
the spirit of the times strongly invites us. Our proper business 
is improvement. Let our age be the age of improvement. In 
a day of peace, let us advance the arts of peace and the works 
of peace. Let us develop the resources of our land, call 
forth its powers, build up its institutions, promote all its great 
interests, and see whether we also, in our day and generation, 
may not perform something worthy to be remembered. Let us 
cultivate a true spirit of union and harmony. In pursuing the 
great objects which our condition points out to us, let us act un- 
der a settled conviction, and an habitual feeling, that these twen- 
ty-four states are one country. Let our conceptions be en- 
larged to the circle of our duties. Let us extend our ideas 
over the whole of the vast field in which we are called to act. 
Let our object be, our country, our whole country, and nothing 
but our country. And, by the blessing of God, may that coun- 
try itself become a vast and splendid monument, not of oppres- 
sion and terror, but of wisdom, of peace, and of liberty, upon 
which the world may gaze with admiration forever. 



81 



ANTITHESIS 



BAUBLES.— Pope. 

Behold the child, by nature's kindly law, 
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw : 
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, 
A little louder, but as empty quite : 
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, 
And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age 
Pleased with this bauble still, as that before ; 
'Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er. 
Meanwhile opinion gilds with varying rays 
Those painted clouds that beautify our days : 
Each want of happiness by hope supplied, 
And each vacuity of sense by pride : 
These build as fast as knowledge can destroy ; 
In folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy ; 
One prospect lost, another still we gain ; 
And not a vanity is given in vain : 
Even mean self-love becomes, by force divine, 
The scale to measure others wants by thine. 
See ! and confess, one comfort still must rise ; 
'Tis this, though man's a fool, yet God is wise. 



BENEDICK.— Shakspeare. 

I do much wonder, that one man, seeing how much another 
man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors to love, will, after 
he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the 
argument, of his own scorn, by falling in love : and such a man 
is Claudio. I have known, when there was no music with him 
but the drum and fife ; and now had he rather hear the tabor 
and the pipe : I have known, when he would have walked ten 
miles afoot, to see a good armor ; and now will he lie ten nights 
awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont 
to speak plain, and to the purpose, like an honest man, and a 
soldier ; and now is he turned orthographer ; his words are a 



82 young lady's reader. 

very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I 
be so converted, and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I 
think not : I will not be sworn, but love may transform me to an 
oyster; but I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster 
of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair ; 
yet I am well : another is wise ; yet I am well : another is vir- 
tuous ; yet 1 am well : but till all graces be in one woman, one 
woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's 
certain ; wise, or I'll none ; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her ; 
fair, or I'll never look on her ; mild, or come not near me ; no- 
ble, or not I for an angel ; of good discourse, an excellent mu- 
sician, and her hair shall be of what color it please God. 



THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON.— Dryden. 

A parish priest was of the pilgrim-train ; 

An awful, reverend, and religious man. 

His eyes diffused a venerable grace, 

And charity itself was in his face. 

Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor, 

As God hath clothed his own ambassador, 

For such, on earth, his blessed Redeemer bore. 

Of sixty years he seemed ; and well might last 

To sixty more, but that he lived too fast; 

Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense ; 

And made almost a sin of abstinence. 

Yet, had his aspect nothing of severe, 

But such a face as promised him sincere. 

Nothing reserved or sullen was to see : 

But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity : 

Mild was his accent, and his action free. 

With eloquence innate his tongue was armed ; 

Though harsh the precept, yet the people charmed, 

For, letting down the golden chain from high, 

He drew his audience upward to the sky : 

And oft with holy hymns he charmed their ears, 

(A music more melodious than the spheres,) 

For David left him, when he went to rest, 

His lyre ; and after him he sung the best. 

He bore his great commission in his look : 

But sweetly tempered awe ; and softened all he spoke. 

He preached the joys of heaven, and pains of hell, 



ANTITHESIS. 83 

And warned the sinner with becoming zeal ; 

But on eternal mercy loved to dwell. 

He taught the gospel rather than the law ; 

And forced himself to drive ; but loved to draw. 

For fear but freezes minds : but love, like heat, 

Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat. 

To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard, 

Wrapped in his crimes, against the storm prepared ; 

But when the milder beams of mercy play, 

He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away. 

Lightning and thunder, (heaven's artillery) 

As harbingers before the Almighty fly : 

Those but proclaim his style, and disappear ; 

The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there. 



HONOR AND VIRTUE,— Colton. 

Honor is unstable, and seldom the same ; for she feeds up- 
on opinion, and is as fickle as her food. She builds a lofty 
structure on the sandy foundation of the esteem of those who 
are of all beings the most subject to change. But virtue is uni- 
form and fixed, because she looks for approbation only from 
Him, who is the same yesterday — to-day — and forever. Hon- 
or is the most capricious in her rewards. She feeds us with 
air, and often pulls down our house, to build our monument. 
She is contracted in her views, inasmuch as her hopes are root- 
ed in earth, bounded by time, and terminated by death. But 
virtue is enlarged and infinite in her hopes, inasmuch as they 
extend beyond present things, even to eternal ; this is their 
proper sphere, and they will cease only in the reality of death- 
less enjoyment. In the storms, and in the tempests of life, 
honor is not to be depended on, because she herself partakes 
of the tumult; she also is buffeted by the wave, and borne 
along by the whirlwind. But virtue is above the storm, and 
has an anchor sure and steadfast, because it is cast into hea- 
ven. The noble Brutus worshiped honor, and in his zeal mis- 
took her for virtue. In the day of trial he found her a shadow 
and a name. But no man can purchase his virtue too dear ; 
for it is the only thing whose value must ever increase with the 
'price it has cost us. Our integrity is never worth so much as 
when we have parted with our all to keep it. 



84 young lady's reader. 



MINNA AND BRENDA — Scott. 

Minna and Brenda were the daughters of Magnus Troil. 
Their mother had been dead for many years, and they were 
now two beautiful girls ; the eldest only eighteen, the second 
about seventeen. From her mother, Minna inherited the state- 
ly form and dark eyes, the raven locks and finely-pencilled 
brows, which shewed she was, on one side at least, a stranger 
to the blood of Thule. Her cheek, 

O, eall it fair, not pale, 

was so slightly and delicately tinged with the rose, that many 
thought the lily had an undue proportion in her complexion. 
But in that predominance of the paler flower, there was nothing 
sickly or languid ; it was the true natural complexion of health, 
and corresponded in a peculiar degree with features which 
seemed calculated to express a contemplative and high-minded 
character. When Minna Troil heard a tale of woe or of in- 
justice, her blood rushed to her cheeks, and shewed plainly 
how warm it beat, notwithstanding the generally serious, com- 
posed, and retiring disposition, which her countenance and de- 
meanor seemed to exhibit. If strangers sometimes conceived 
that these fine features were clouded by melancholy, for which 
her age and situation could scarce have given occasion, they 
were soon satisfied, upon further acquaintance, that the placid, 
mild quietude of her disposition, and the mental energy of a 
character which was but little interested in ordinary and trivial 
occurrences, was the real cause of her gravity ; and most men, 
when they knew that her melancholy had no ground in real sor- 
row, and was only the aspiration of a soul bent on more impor- 
tant objects, than those by which she was surrounded, might 
have wished her whatever could add to her happiness, but could 
scarce have desired that, graceful as she was in her natural 
and unaffected seriousness, she should change that deportment 
for one more gay. In short, notwithstanding our wish to have 
avoided that hackneyed simile of an angel, we cannot avoid 
saying there was something in the serious beauty of her as- 
pect, in the measured, yet graceful ease of her motions, in the 
music of her voice, and the serene purity of her eye, that seem- 
ed as if Minna Troil belonged naturally to some higher and 
better sphere, and was only the chance visitant of a world 
scarce worthy of her. 



ANTITHESIS. 85 

The scarce less beautiful, equally lovely, and equally inno- 
cent Brenda, was of a complexion as differing from her sister, 
as they differed in character, taste, and expression. Her pro- 
fuse locks were of that paly brown which receives from the 
passing sun-beam a tinge of gold, but darkens again when the 
ray has passed from it. Her eye, her mouth, the beautiful row 
of teeth, which, in her innocent vivacity, were frequently dis- 
closed ; the fresh, yet not too bright glow of a healthy com- 
plexion, tinging a skin like the drifted snow, spoke her genuine 
Scandinavian descent. A fairy form, less tall than that 01 
Minna, but even more finely moulded into symmetry — a care- 
less, and almost childish lightness of step, — an eye that seem- 
ed to look on every object with pleasure, from a natural and se- 
rene cheerfulness of disposition, attracted even more general 
admiration than the charms of her sister, though perhaps that 
which Minna did excite, might be of a more intense as well as 
a more reverential character. 

The dispositions of these lovely sisters were not less differ- 
ent than their complexions. In the kindly affections, neither 
could be said to excel the other, so much were they attached to 
their father and to each other. But the cheerfulness of Brenda 
mixed itself with the every day business of life, and seemed 
inexhaustible in its profusion. The less buoyant spirit of her 
sister appeared to bring to society a continued wish to be inter- 
ested and pleased with what was going forward, but was rather 
placidly carried along with the stream of mirth and pleasure, 
than disposed to aid its progress by any efforts of her own. 
She endured mirth rather than enjoyed it; and the pleasures in 
which she most delighted, were those of a graver and more sol- 
itary cast. The knowledge which is derived from books, was 
beyond her reach. Zetland afforded few opportunities, in those 
days, of studying the lessons bequeated 

By dead men to their kind ; 

and Magnus Troil, such as we have described him, was not a 
person within whose mansion the means of such knowledge 
was to be acquired. But the book of nature was before Min- 
na, that noblest of volumes, where we are ever called to won- 
der and to admire, even when we cannot understand. The 
plants of those wild rigions, the shells on the shores, and the 
long list of feathered clans which haunt their cliffs and eyries, 
were as well known to Minna Troil, as to the most experienced 
of the fowlers. Her powers of observation were wonderful, 



86 young lady's reader. 

and little interrupted by other tones of feeling. The informa- 
tion which she acquired by habits of patient attention, were in- 
delibly rivetted in a naturally powerful memory. She had also 
a high feeling for the solitary and melancholy grandeur of the 
scenes in which she was placed. The ocean, in all its varied 
forms of sublimity and terror — the tremendous cliffs that re- 
sound to the ceaseless roar of the billows, and the clang of the 
sea-fowl, had for Minna a charm in almost every state in which 
the changing seasons exhibited them. With the enthusiastic 
feeling's proper to the romantic race from which her mother de- 
scended, the love of natural objects was to her a passion capa- 
ble of not only occupying, but at times of agitating her mind. 
Scenes upon which her sister looked with a sense of transient 
awe or emotion, which vanished on her return from witnessing 
them, continued long to fill Minna's imagination, not only in sol- 
itude, and in the silence of the night, but in the hours of socie- 
ty. So that sometimes when she sat like a beautiful statue, a 
present member of the domestic circle, her thoughts were far 
absent, wandering on the wild sea-shore, and amongst the yet 
wilder mountains of her native isles. And, yet, when recalled 
to conversation, and mingling in it with interest, there were few 
to whom her friends were more indebted for enhancing its en- 
joyments ; and, although something in her manners claimed 
deference, (notwithstanding her early youth,) as well as affec- 
tion, even her gay, lovely, and amiable sister, was not more gen- 
erally beloved than the more retired and pensive Minna. 

Indeed, the two lovely sisters were not only the delight of 
their friends, but the pride of those islands, where the inhabit- 
ants of a certain rank were formed, by the remoteness of their 
situation and the general hospitality of their habits, into one 
friendly community. A wandering poet and parcel-musician, 
who, after going through various fortunes, had returned to end 
his days as he could in his native islands, had celebrated the 
daughters of Magnus in a poem, which he entitled night and 
day; and, in his description of Minna, might almost be thought 
to have anticipated, though only in a rude outline, the exquisite 
lines of Lord Byron, — 

" She walks in beauty like the night 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
And all that's best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
Thus mellowed to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies." 



ANTITHESIS. 87 

Their father loved the maidens both so well, that it might be 
difficult to say which he liked best, saving that, perchance, he 
loved his graver damsel better in the walk without doors, and 
his merry maiden better by the fire-side; that he more desired 
the society of Minna when he was sad, and that of Brenda 
when he was mirthful ; and what was nearly the same thing, 
preferred Minna before noon, and Brenda after the glass had 
circulated in the evening. 

But it was still more extraordinary, that the affections of 
Mordaunt Mertoun seemed to hover with the same impartiality 
as those of their father betwixt the two lovely sisters. From 
his boyhood, as we have noticed, he had been a frequent inmate 
of the residence of Magnus at Burgh- Westra, although it lay 
nearly twenty miles distant from Jarlshof. The impassable 
character of the country betwixt these places, extending over 
hills covered with loose and quaking bog, and frequently inter- 
sected by the creeks or arms of the sea, which indent the island 
on either side, as well as by fresh-water streams and lakes, ren- 
dered the journey difficult, and even dangerous, in the dark sea- 
son ; yet, as soon as the state of his father's mind warned him 
to absent himself, Mordaunt, at every risk, and under every dif- 
ficulty, was pretty sure to be found upon the next day at Burgh- 
Westra, having achieved his journey in less time than would 
have been employed perhaps by the most active native. 

He was of course set down as a wooer of one of the daugh- 
ters of Magnus, by the public of Zetland ; and when the old 
Udaller's great partiality to the youth was considered, nobody 
doubted that he might aspire to the hand of either of those dis- 
tinguished beauties, with as large a share of islets, rocky moor- 
land, and shore-fishings, as might be the fitting portion of a fa- 
vored child, and with the prospect of possessing half the do- 
mains of the ancient house of Troil, when their present owner 
was no more. This seemed all a reasonable speculation, and, 
in theory at least, better constructed than many that are current 
through the world as unquestionable facts. But alas ! all that 
sharpness of observation which could be applied to the conduct 
of the parties, failed to determine the main point, to which of 
the young persons, namely, the attentions of Mordaunt were 
peculiarly devoted. He seemed, in general, to treat them as 
an affectionate and attached brother might have treated two sis- 
ters, so equally dear to him that a breath would have turned the 
scale of affection. Or, if at any time, which often happened, 
the one maiden appeared the more especial object of his atten- 



88 young lady's reader. 

tion, it seemed only to be because circumstances called her pe- 
culiar talents and disposition into more particular and immedi- 
ate exercise. 

They were both accomplished in the simple music of the 
north, and Mordaunt, who was their assistant, and sometimes 
their preceptor, when they were practising this delightful art, 
might be now seen assisting Minna in the acquisition of those 
wild, solemn, and simple airs, to which Scalds and harpers 
sung of old the deeds of heroes, and presently found equally ac- 
tive in teaching Brenda the more lively and complicated music, 
Avhich their father's affection caused to be brought from the 
English or Scottish capital, for the use of his daughters. And 
while conversing with them, Mordaunt, who mingled a strain of 
deep and ardent enthusiasm with the gay and ungovernable 
gaiety of youth, was equally ready to enter into the wild and 
poetical visions of Minna, or into the lively, and often humor- 
ous chat of her gayer sister. In short, so little did he seem to 
attach himself to either damsel exclusively, that he was some- 
times heard to say, that Minna never looked so lovely as when 
her light-hearted sister had induced her, for the time, to forget 
her habitual gravity ; or Brenda so interesting as when she sate 
listening, a subdued and affected partaker of the deep pathos of 
her sister Minna. 



POETRY AND HISTORY.— Wolfe. 

But turn to poetry and history united for your instruction. 
Human nature is common to both ; but different are their 
modes of tuition. They supply their respective delineations 
of character. Poetry, when at maturity, observes it as well 
with a painter's eye as with the scrutiny of a philosopher. She 
seizes the moment of sketching it when in its most picturesque 
attitude ; or, if there be many, she groups them so as that they 
may produce the best general effects ; and thus, without anni- 
hilating their deformities, she makes them conduce to a plea- 
sing and fascinating impression. But rigid history takes char- 
acter as she finds it ; she displays it more exact and impartial, 
but less attractive to our contemplation. Poetry displays the 
moral character; history, the moral and political. Poetry 
makes the character more palpable ; history, more complete. 



89 



INTERROGATION 



THE MORAL INFLUENCE OF VISITING THE GRAVES OF 
THE DEPARTED.— Story. 

If this tender regard for the dead be so absolutely universal, 
and so deeply founded in human affection, why is it not made 
to exert a more profound influence on our lives 1 Why do we 
not enlist it with more persuasive energy in the cause of hu- 
man improvement? Why do we not enlarge it as a source of 
religious consolation 1 Why do we not make it a more effi- 
cient instrument to elevate ambition, to stimulate genius, and 
to dignify learning ? Why do we not connect it indissolubly 
with associations, which charm us in nature, and engross us in 
art 1 Why do we not dispel from it that unlovely gloom, from 
which our hearts turn, as from a darkness that ensnares, and a 
horror that appals our thoughts ? 

To many, nay, to most of the heathen, the burying-place 
was the end of all things. They indulged no hope, at least no 
solid hope, of any future intercourse or re-union with their 
friends. The farewell at the grave was a long, and an everlast- 
ing farewell. At the moment when they breathed it, it brought 
to their hearts a startling sense of their own wretchedness. 
Yet, when the first tumults of anguish were passed, they visit- 
ed the spot, and strewed flowers, and garlands, and crowns 
around it, to assuage their grief, and nourish their piety. They 
delighted to make it the abode of the varying beauties of na- 
ture ; to give it attractions which should invite the busy and 
the thoughtful ; and yet, at the same time, afford ample scope 
for the secret indulgence of sorrow. 

Why should not christians imitate such examples 1 They 
have far nobler motives to cultivate moral sentiments and sen- 
sibilities ; to make cheerful the pathways to the grave ; to com- 
bine with deep meditations on human mortality, the sublime 
consolations of religion. We know, indeed, as they did of 
old, that " man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go 
about the streets." But that home is not an everlasting home ; 
and the mourners may not weep, as those who are without 
hope. What is the grave to us, but a thin barrier, dividing 
time from eternity, and earth from heaven ? What is it, but 

8* 



90 young lady's reader. 

"the appointed place of rendezvous, where all the travelers on 
life's journey meet," for a single night of repose ? 

'"Tis but a night — a long and moonless night, 
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone." 

Know we not, 

" The time draws on 
When not a single spot of burial earth, 
Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, 
But must give up its long committed dust 
Inviolate?" 

Why, then, should we darken, with systematic caution, all the 
avenues to these repositories ? Why should we deposit the re- 
mains of our friends in loathsome vaults, or beneath the gloomy 
crypts and cells of our churches ; where the human foot is nev- 
er heard, save when the sickly taper lights some new guest to 
his appointed apartment, and " lets fall a supernumerary horror" 
on the passing procession? Why should we measure out a 
narrow portion of earth for our grave-yards, in the midst of our 
cities ; and heap the dead upon each other, with a cold, calcu- 
lating parsimony, disturbing their ashes, and wounding the sen- 
sibilities of the living ? Why should we expose our burying- 
grounds to the broad glare of day, to the unfeeling gaze of the 
idler, to the noisy press of business, to the discordant shouts of 
merriment, or to the baleful visitations of the dissolute ? Why 
should we bar up their approaches against real mourners, 
whose delicacy would shrink from observation, but whose ten- 
derness would be soothed by secret visits to the grave, and 
holding converse there with their departed joys ? Why all this 
unnatural restraint upon our sympathies and sorrows, which 
confines the visit to the grave to the only time in which it must 
be utterly useless — when the heart is bleeding with fresh an- 
guish, and is too weak to feel, and too desolate to desire conso- 
lation ? 



"MAN GIVETH UP THE GHOST, AND WHERE IS HE?"— 

Sparks. 

Yes, when we see the flower of life fade on its stalk, and all 
its comeliness depart, and all its freshness wither ; when we 
see the bright eye grow dim, and the rose on the cheek lose its 
hue ; when we hear the voice faltering its last accents, and see 
the energies of nature paralyzed ; when we perceive the beams 



INTERROGATION. 91 

of intelligence grow fainter and fainter on the countenance, 
and the last gleam of life extinguished : when we deposit all 
that is mortal of a fellow-being in the dark, cold chamber of 
the grave, and drop a pitying tear at a spectacle so humiliating, 
so mournful ; then let us put the solemn question to our souls, 
Where is he 1 His body is concealed in the earth ; but where 
is the spirit ? Where is the intellect that could look through 
the works of God, and catch inspiration from the Divinity 
which animates and pervades the whole ? Where are the pow- 
ers that could command, the attractions that could charm 1 
where the boast of humanity, wisdom, learning, wit, eloquence, 
the pride of skill, the mystery of art, the creations of fancy, 
the brilliancy of thought 1 where the virtues that could win, 
and the gentleness that could soothe ? where the mildness of 
temper, the generous affections, the benevolent feelings, all 
that is great and good, all that is noble and lovely, and pure in 
the human character, — where are they ? They are gone. We 
can see nothing : the eye of faith only can dimly penetrate the 
region to which they have fled. Lift the eye of faith ; follow 
the light of the gospel ; and let your delighted vision be lost in 
the glories of the immortal world. Behold there, the spirits 
of the righteous dead rising up into newness of life, gathering 
brightness and strength, unincumbered by the weight of mortal 
clay and mortal sorrows, enjoying a happy existence, and per- 
forming the holy service of their Maker. 

Let our reflections on death have a weighty and immediate 
influence on our minds and characters. We cannot be too soon 
nor too entirely prepared to render the account, which we must 
all render to our Maker and Judge. All things earthly must 
fail us ; the riches, power, possessions, and gifts of the world 
will vanish from our sight ; friends and relatives will be left be- 
hind ; our present support will be taken away : our strength 
will become weakness ; and the earth itself, and all its pomps, 
and honors, and attractions will disappear. Why have we 
been spared even till this time 1 We know not why, nor yet 
can we say that a moment is our own. The summons for our 
departure may now be recorded in the book of heaven. The 
angel may now be on his way to execute his solemn commis- 
sion. Death may already have marked us for his victims. 
But, whether sooner or later, the event will be equally awful, 
and demand the same preparation. 

One, only, will then be our rock and our safety. The kind 
Parent, who has upheld us all our days, will remain our unfail- 



92 young lady's reader. 

ing support. With him is no change ; he is unmoved from 
age to age ; his mercy, as well as his being, endures forever ; 
and, if we rely on him, and live in obedience to his laws, all 
tears shall be wiped from our eyes, and all sorrow banished 
from our hearts. If we are rebels to his cause, slaves to vice, 
and followers of evil, we must expect the displeasure of a holy 
God, the just punishment of our folly and wickedness ; for a 
righteous retribution will be awarded to the evil as well as to 
the good. 

Let it be the highest, the holiest, the unceasing concern of 
each one of us, to live the life, that we may be prepared to die 
the death, of the righteous ; that, when they who come after 
us shall ask, Where is he 1 unnumbered voices shall be raised 
to testify, that, although his mortal remains are moldering in 
the cold earth, his memory is embalmed in the cherished recol- 
lections of many a friend who knew and loved him ; and all 
shall say, with tokens of joy and confident belief, If God be 
just, and piety be rewarded, his pure spirit is now at rest in the 
regions of the blessed. 



THE WORLD'S WANDERERS.— Shelley, 

Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light 
Speed thee in thy fiery flight, 
In what cavern of the night 

Will thy pinions close now 1 

Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray 
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, 
In what depth of night or day 
Seekest thou repose now ? 

Weary wind, who wanderest 
Like the world's rejected guest, 
Hast thou still some secret nest 
On the tree or billow ? 



MAN'S HIGH DESTINY.— Taylor. 

We have spoken of the " perpetual pleasures" that surround 
the throne of God. But what has man to do with themes so 
high, and so little in harmony with his actual condition ? Look 
at him in the guise he wears ! Does he seem like an aspirant 



REPETITION. 93 

to immortality and glory ? Is such an one as he indeed on his 
way to the royal abode of universal dominion ? — Is not his eye 
anxiously fixed upon the low path he is treading? is not his 
brow knit with care, and soiled with degrading labor ? is he 
not in heart ignoble 1 is he not emaciate ? are not his garments 
worn — his feet lacerated — his provision corrupted 1 Yes, and 
has not his spirit bowed to the humiliations of his lot ; so that 
he even consents to the scorn that belongs to it? All this is 
true, and more might be said ; nevertheless, man must not sur- 
render his pretension to the heavens. He has a special reason 
for his hope — a reason stronger than all contradictions. 



REPETITION. 



" I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY."— Episcopal Watchman. 

I would not live alway : no, no, holy man ; 

Not a day, not an hour, should lengthen my span ; 

The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here, 

Are enough for life's woes, e'en enough for its cheer ; 

Would I not go the way which the prophets of God, 

Apostles and martyrs, so joyfully trod ? 

While brethren and friends are all hastening home, 

Like a spirit unblest o'er the earth would I roam ? 

I would not live alway : I ask not to stay 
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; 
Where seeking for rest, we but hover around 
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found ; 
Where hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air, 
Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair, 
And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, 
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. 

/ would not live alway : thus fettered by sin, 
Temptation without, and corruption within : 
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, 
Scarce the victory's mine, ere I'm captive again ; 



94 young lady's reader. 

E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, 
And my cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears, 
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, 
But my spirit her own miserere 1 prolongs. 

/ would not live alway : no, welcome the tomb ; 
Immortality's lamp burneth bright 'mid the gloom ; 
The pillow is there on which Christ bowed his head ; 
How sweetly I'll slumber on that holy bed ! 
But sweeter the morn that shall follow that night, 
When the sunrise of glory shall beam on my sight, 
While the full matin song, as the sleepers arise 
To hail the glad morning, shall peal through the skies. 

Who, who would live alway ? away from his God ; 
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode ? 
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, 
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ; 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet 
Their Savior and brethren transported to greet ; 
While the songs of salvation unceasingly roll, 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul. 

That heavenly music ! What is it I hear ? 
The notes of the harpers ring sweet in the air ! 
And see, soft unfolding, those portals of gold ! 
The king all arrayed in his beauty behold ! 
O give me, O give me the wings of a dove ! 
Let me hasten my flight to that palace above — 
'Tis now that my soul on glad pinions would soar, 
And in ecstasy bid earth adieu, evermore. 



YOU WOULD LOSE YOUR REASON.— Massilon. 

Are you placed upon earth only to live in an indolent calm, 
and to occupy your minds with none but pleasant and cheerful 
objects ? We should lose our reason, you say, if we were to 
think closely upon death. You would lose your reason! 
What ! Have the many pious people who mingle this thought 
with all their actions, and who, from reflecting on their last 
hour, learn to restrain their passions, and derive the most pow- 



REPETITION. 95 

erful motive to fidelity, — have the saints who, like the apostle, 
die daily, that they may not die eternally, have all they lost 
their reason 1 You would lose your reason ! That is to say, 
you would regard this world as a state of banishment ; plea- 
sures, as intoxicating ; sin, as the greatest of evils ; places, 
honors, favor, fortune, as dreams ; and salvation, as the great, 
the only business of life. Happy folly ! I wish from this day 
you might all be of the number of those thus wisely bereft of 
reason ! You would lose your reason ! — Yes, that false, 
worldly, proud, carnal, foolish reason which seduces you ; that 
corrupt reason which obscures faith, which authorizes the in- 
dulgence of passion, which makes people prefer time to eterni- 
ty, a shadow to a substance, and which leads all men astray ; 
that deplorable reason, that vain philosophy, which considers 
the fear of an hereafter as a weakness, and which, because it 
fears it too much, pretends or endeavors not to believe it. 



THE CALM AT SEA.— Coleridge. 

Down droptthe breeze, the sails dropt down, 
'T was sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, every where, 
And all the boards did shrink : 
Water, water, every where, 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 



96 young lady's reader. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

And every tongue, through utter drought 
Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 

There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
A weary time ! a weary time ! 
How glazed each weary eye, 
When looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck, 
And then it seemed a mist ; 
It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it neared and neared : 
As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

We could nor laugh nor wail ; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood ; 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 



THE SONG OF DEBORAH. 

Awake, awake, Deborah; awake, awake; utter a song: 
arise, Barak, and lead thy captivity captive, thou son of Abi- 
noam. Then he made him that remaineth have dominion oyer 
the nobles among the people : the Lord made me have domin- 



REPETITION. 97 

ion over the mighty. Out of Ephraim was there a root of 
them against Amalek ; after thee, Benjamin, among thy peo- 
ple : out of Machir came down governors, and out of Zebu- 
lun they that handle the pen of the writer. And the princes 
of Issachar were with Deborah ; even Issachar and also Ba- 
rak : he was sent on foot into the valley. For the divisions of 
Reuben there were great thoughts of heart. Why abodest 
thou among the sheep-folds, to hear the bleatings of the flocks ? 
For the divisions of Reuben there were great searchings of 
heart. Gilead abode beyond Jordan : and why did Dan re- 
main in ships ? Asher continued on the sea-shore, and abode 
in his breaches. Zebulun and Naphtali were a people that 
jeoparded their lives unto the death in the high places of the 
field. The kings came and fought : then fought the kings of 
Canaan in Tanach by the waters of Megiddo ; they took no 
gain of money. They fought from heaven ; the stars in their 
courses fought against Sisera. The river of Kishon swept 
them away, that ancient river, the river Kishon. O my soul, 
thou hast trodden down strength. Then were the horse-hoofs 
broken by the means of the prancings, the prancings of their 
mighty ones. Curse ye Meroz, (said the angel of the Lord,) 
curse ye bitterly the inhabitants thereof; because they came 
not to the help of the Lord, to the help of the Lord against the 
mighty. Blessed above women shall Jael, the wife of Heber 
the Kenite, be ; blessed shall she be above women in the tent. 
He asked water, and she gave him milk ; she brought forth but- 
ter in a lordly dish. She put her hand to the nail, and her 
right hand to the workmen's hammer ; and with the hammer 
she smote Sisera; she smote off his head, when she had 
pierced and stricken through his temples. At her feet he bow- 
ed, he fell, he lay down ; at her feet he bowed, he fell : where 
he bowed, there he fell down dead. The mother of Sisera 
looked out at a window, and cried through the lattice, Why is 
his chariot so long in coming? why tarry the wheels of his 
chariots 1 Her wise ladies answered her, yea, she returned an- 
swer to herself. Have- they not sped 1 have they not divided 
the prey ; to every man a damsel or two, to Sisera a prey of 
divers colors, a prey of divers colors of needle-work, of divers 
colors of needle-work on both sides, meet for the necks of 
them that take the spoil ? So let all thine enemies perish, O 
Lord : but let them that love him be as the sun when he goeth. 
forth in his might. 

9 



98 



EXCLAMATION. 



THE BURIAL PLACE.— Story. 

What a multitude of thoughts crowd upon the mind, in the 
contemplation of such a scene ! How much of the future, 
even in its far distant reaches, rises before us with all its per- 
suasive realities ! Take but one little narrow space of time, 
and how affecting are its associations! Within the flight of 
one half century, how many of the great, the good, and the 
wise will be gathered here! How many, in the loveliness of 
infancy, the beauty of youth, the vigor of manhood, and the 
maturity of age, will lie down here, and dwell in the bosom of 
their mother earth ! The rich and the poor, the gay and the 
wretched, the favorites of thousands, and the forsaken of the 
world, the stranger in his solitary grave, and the patriarch, sur- 
rounded by the kindred of a long lineage ! How many will 
here burv their brightest hopes, or blasted expectations ! How 
many bitter tears will here be shed ! How many agonizing 
sighs will here be heaved! How many trembling feet will 
cross the pathways, and, returning, leave behind them the dear- 
est objects of their reverence or their love ! 



EXTRACT FROM A DISCOURSE.— Nott. 

"How are the mighty fallen!" Fallen before the desolating 
hand of death. Alas ! the ruins of the tomb ! The ruins of 
the tomb are an emblem of the ruins of the world ; when not 
an individual, but a universe, already marred by sin, and has- 
tening to dissolution, shall agonize and die ! Directing your 
thoughts from the one, fix them for a moment on the other. 
Anticipate the concluding scene, the final catastrophe of na- 
ture : when the sign of the Son of man shall be seen in hea- 
ven ; when the Son of man himself shall appear in the glory 
of his Father, and send forth judgment unto victory. The 
fiery desolation envelopes towns, palaces, and fortresses ; the 
heavens pass away ! the earth melts! and all those magnifi- 
cent productions of art, which ages, heaped on ages, have rear- 
ed up, are in one awful day reduced to ashes. 



KXCLAMATION. 99 

Against the ruins of that day, as well as the ruins of the 
tomb which precede it, the gospel, in the cross of its great 
High Priest, offers you all a sanctuary ; a sanctuary secure 
and abiding ; a sanctuary, which no lapse of time, nor change 
of circumstances, can destroy. No; neither life nor death. 
No ; neither principalities nor powers. 

Every thing else is fugitive ; every thing else is mutable ; 
every thing else will fail you. But this, the citadel of the 
christian's hopes, will never fail you. Its base is adamant. 
It is cemented with the richest blood. The ransomed of the 
Lord crowd its portals. Embosomed in the dust which it en- 
closes, the bodies of the redeemed " rest in hope." On its 
top dwells the church of the first born, who in delightful res- 
ponse with the angels of light, chant redeeming love. Against 
this citadel the tempest beats, and around it the storm rages, 
and spends its force in vain. Immortal in its nature, and in- 
capable of change, it stands, and stands firm, amidst the ruins 
of a moldering world, and endures forever. Thither fly, ye 
prisoners of hope. 



POMPEII.— Bulwer. 

How serenely slept the star-light on that lovely city ! how 
breathlessly its pillared streets reposed in their security ! how 
softly rippled the dark, green waves beyond ! how cloudless 
spread aloft and blue the dreaming Campanian skies ! Yet 
this was the last night for the gay Pompeii ! the colony of the 
hoar Chaldean ! the fabled city of Hercules ! the delight of 
the voluptuous Roman ! Age after age had rolled indestruct- 
ive, unheeded, over its head ; and now the last ray quivered on 
the dial plate of its doom ! 



REASON.— Coleridge. 

Reason ! best and holiest gift of heaven, and bond of union 
with the Giver! The high title by which the majesty of man 
claims precedence above all other living creatures! Mysteri- 
ous faculty, the mother of conscience, of language, of tears, 
and of smiles ! Calm and incorruptible legislator of the soul, 
without whom all its other powers would " meet in mere op- 
pugnancy." Sole principle of permanence amid endless 



100 YOUNG LADY'S READER. 

change ! in a world of discordant appetites and imagined self- 
interests, the one only common measure ! which taken away, 

"Force should be right; or, rather right and wrong 
(Between whose endless jar justice resides,) 
Should lose their names and so should justice too. 
Then every thing includes itself in power. 
Power into will, will into appetite ; 
And appetite, an universal wolf, 
So doubly seconded with will and power, 
Must make perforce an universal prey!" 

Thrice blessed faculty of Reason ! all other gifts, though good- 
ly, and of celestial origin, health, strength, talents, all the pow- 
ers and all the means of enjoyment, seem dispensed by chance 
or sullen caprice — thou alone, more than even the sunshine, 
more than the common air, art given to all men, and to every 
man alike ! To thee, who being one, art the same in all, we 
owe the privilege, that of all we can become one, a living 
whole ! that we have a Country ! 



MORNING AFTER A STORM.— Moore. 

How calm, how beautiful comes on 
The stilly hour, when storms are gone ; 
When warrior winds have died away, 
And clouds beneath the glancing ray, 
Melt off, and leave the land and sea 
Sleeping in bright tranquility, — 
Fresh as if day again were born, 
Again upon the lap of morn ! 
When the light blossoms, rudely torn 
And scattered at the whirlwind's will, 
Hang floating in the pure air still, 
Filling it all with precious balm, 
In gratitude for this sweet calm ; — 
And every drop the thunder showers 
Have left upon the grass and flowers 
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem 
Whose liquid flame is born of them ! 

When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, 
There blow a thousand gentle airs, 
And each a different perfume bears, — 

As if the loveliest plants and trees 



IRONY. 101 



Had vassal breezes of their own 
To watch and wait on them alone, 
And waft no other breath than theirs ! 



AMBITION.— Willis. 

What is its earthly victory ? Press on ! 
For it hath tempted angels. Yes, press on ! 
For it shall make you mighty among men ; 
And from the eyrie of your eagle thought, 
Ye shall look down on monarchs. O, press on ! 
For the high ones and powerful shall come 
To do you reverence ; and the beautiful 
Will know the purer language of your brow, 
And read it like a talisman of love ! 
Press on ! for it is godlike to unloose 
The spirit, and forget yourself in thought; 
Bending a pinion for the deeper sky, 
And, in the very fetters of your flesh, 
Mating with the pure essences of heaven! 
Press on ! — ' for, in the grave there is no work, 
And no device.' — Press on while yet ye may! 



IRONY. 



RIGHT OF THE COLONISTS TO AMERICA.— Irving. 

The first source of right, by which property is acquired in a 
country, is discovery. For as all mankind have an equal right 
to any thing which has never before been appropriated, so any 
nation that discovers an uninhabited country, and takes posses- 
sion thereof, is considered as enjoying full property, and abso- 
lute, unquestionable empire therein. 

This proposition being admitted, it follows clearly, that the 
Europeans who first visited America, were the real discoverers 
of the same ; nothing being necessary to the establishment of 
this fact, but simply to prove that it was totally uninhabited by 
man. This would at first appear to be a point of some diflicul- 

9* 



102 young lady's reader. 

ty, for it is well known, that this quarter of the world abounded 
with certain animals, that walked erect on two feet, had some- 
thing of the human countenance, uttered certain unintelligible 
sounds, very much like language, in short, had a marvelous re- 
semblance to human beings. But the zealous and enlightened 
fathers, who accompanied the discoverers, for the purpose of 
promoting the kingdom of heaven, by establishing fat monaste- 
ries and bishoprics on earth, soon cleared up this point, greatly 
to the satisfaction of his holiness the Pope, and of all christian 
voyagers and discoverers. 

They plainly proved, and as there were no Indian writers 
who arose on the other side, the fact was considered as fully 
admitted and established, that the two-legged race of animals 
before mentioned, were mere cannibals, detestable monsters, 
and many of them giants — which last description of vagrants 
have, since the time of Gog, Magog, and Goliath, been consid- 
ered as outlaws, and have received no quarter in either history, 
chivalry, or song. Indeed, even the philosophic Bacon, declar- 
ed the Americans to be people proscribed by the laws of na- 
ture, inasmuch as they had a barbarous custom of sacrificing 
men, and feeding upon man's flesh. 

Nor are these all the proofs of their utter barbarism : among 
many other writers of discernment, Ulloa tells us, " their im- 
becility is so visible, that one can hardly form an idea of them 
different from what one has of the brutes. Nothing disturbs 
the tranquility of their souls, equally insensible to disasters 
and to prosperity. Though half naked, they are as contented 
as a monarch in his most splendid array. Fear makes no 
impression on them, and respect as little." All this is further- 
more supported by the authority of M. Bouguer : " It is not 
easy," says he, " to describe the degree of their indifference 
for wealth and all its advantages. One does not well know 
what motives to propose to them, when one would persuade 
them to any service. It is vain to offer them money ; they an- 
swer that they are not hungry." And Vanegas confirms the 
whole, assuring us that " ambition they have none, and are 
more desirous of being thought strong than valiant. The ob- 
jects of ambition with us — honor, fame, reputation, riches, 
posts, and distinctions, are unknown among them. So that 
this powerful spring of action, the cause of so much seeming 
good and real evil in the world, has no power over them. In a 
word, these unhappy mortals may be compared to children, in 
whom the development of reason is not completed." 



IRONY. 103 

Now all these peculiarities, although in the unenlightened 
states of Greece they would have entitled their possessors to 
immortal honor, as having reduced to practice those rigid and 
abstemious maxims, the mere talking about which acquired 
certain old Greeks the reputation of sages and philosophers ; 
yet, were they clearly proved in the present instance, to beto- 
ken a most abject and brutified nature, totally beneath the hu- 
man character. But the benevolent fathers, who had under- 
taken to turn these unhappy savages into dumb beasts, by dint 
of argument, advanced still stronger proofs ; for as certain di- 
vines of the sixteenth century, and among the rest, Lullus, af- 
firm — the Americans go naked, and have no beards ! — " They 
have nothing," says Lullus, " of the reasonable animal, except 
the mask." — And even that mask was allowed to avail them 
but little, for it was soon found that they were of a hideous 
copper complexion — and being of a copper complexion, it. was 
all the same as if they were negroes — and negroes are black, 
" and black," said the pious fathers, devoutly crossing them- 
selves, " is the color of the devil !" Therefore, so far from be- 
ing able to own property, they had no right even to personal 
freedom — for liberty is too radiant a deity to inhabit such 
gloomy temples. All which circumstances plainly convinced 
the righteous followers of Cortes and Pizarro, that these mis- 
creants had no title to the soil that they infested — that they 
were a perverse, illiterate, dumb, beardless, black-seed — mere 
wild beasts of the forests, and like them should either be sub- 
dued or exterminated. 

From the foregoing arguments, therefore, and a variety of 
others equally conclusive, which I forbear to enumerate, it is 
clearly evident that this fair quarter of the globe when first 
visited by Europeans, was a howling wilderness, inhabited by 
nothing but wild beasts ; and that the transatlantic visiters ac- 
quired an incontrovertible property therein, by the right of dis- 
covery. 

This right being fully established, we now come to the next, 
which is the right acquired by cultivation. " The cultivation of 
the soil," we are told, " is an obligation imposed by nature on 
mankind. The whole world is appointed for the nourishment 
of its inhabitants : but it would be incapable of doing it, was 
it uncultivated. Every nation is then obliged by the law of 
nature to cultivate the ground that has fallen to its share. 
Those people, like the ancient Germans and modern Tartars, 
who, having fertile countries, disdain to cultivate the earth, and 



104 young lady's reader. 

choose to live by rapine, are wanting to themselves, and deserve 
to be exterminated as savage and pernicious beasts." 

Now it is notorious, that the savages knew nothing of agri- 
culture, when first discovered by the Europeans, but lived a 
most vagabond, disorderly, unrighteous life, — rambling from 
place to place, and prodigally rioting upon the spontaneous lux- 
uries of nature, without tasking her generosity to yield them 
any thing more ; whereas it has been most unquestionably 
shown, that heaven intended the earth should be ploughed and 
sown, and manured, and laid out into cities, and towns, and 
farms, and country-seats, and pleasure grounds, and public gar- 
dens, all which the Indians knew nothing about — therefore, 
they did not improve the talents Providence had bestowed on 
them — therefore, they were careless stewards — therefore, they 
had no right to the soil — therefore, they deserved to be exter- 
minated. 

It is true, the savages might plead that they drew all the ben- 
efits fiom the land which their simple wants required — they 
found plenty of game to hunt, which, together with the roots 
and uncultivated fruits of the earth, furnished a sufficient varie- 
ty for their frugal repasts ; — and that as heaven merely design- 
ed the earth to form the abode, and satisfy the wants of man ; 
so long as those purposes were answered, the will of heaven 
was accomplished. But this only proves how undeserving 
they were of the blessings around them — they were so much 
the more savages, for not having more wants ; for knowledge is 
in some degree an increase of desires, and it is this superiority 
both in the number and magnitude of his desires, that distin- 
guishes the man from the beast. Therefore, the Indians, in 
not having more wants, were very unreasonable animals ; and 
it was but just that they should make way for the Europeans, 
who had a thousand wants to their one, and, therefore, would 
turn the earth to more account, and by cultivating it, more tru- 
ly fulfil the will of heaven. Besides — Grotius and Lauter* 
bach, and PuffendorfF, and Titus, and many wise men beside, 
who have considered the matter properly, have determined, that 
the property of a country cannot be acquired by hunting, cut- 
ting wood, or drawing water in it — nothing but precise demar- 
cation of limits, and the intention of cultivation, can establish 
the possession. Now, as the savages (probably from never 
having read the authors above quoted) had never complied with 
any of these necessary forms, it plainly followed that they had 
no right to the soil, but that it was completely at the disposal of 



IRONY. 105 

the first comers, who had more knowledge, more wants, and 
more elegant, that is to say, artificial desires than themselves. 

In entering upon a newly-discovered, uncultivated country, 
therefore, the new comers were but taking possession of what, 
according to the aforesaid doctrine, was their own property — 
therefore, in opposing them, the savages were invading their 
just rights, infringing the immutable laws of nature, and coun- 
teracting the will of heaven — therefore, they were guilty of im- 
piety, burglary, and trespass on the case — therefore, they were 
hardened offenders against God and man — therefore, they ought 
to be exterminated. 

But a more irresistible right than either that 1 have mention- 
ed, and one which will be the most readily admitted by my rea- 
der, provided he be blessed with bowels of charity and philan- 
thropy, is the right acquired by civilization. All the world 
knows the lamentable state in which these poor savages were 
found — not only deficient in the comforts of life, but what is 
still worse, most piteously and unfortunately blind to the mise- 
ries of their situation. But no sooner did the benevolent in- 
habitants of Europe behold their sad condition, than they im- 
mediately went to work to meliorate and improve it. They in- 
troduced among them rum, gin, brandy, and the other comforts 
of life — and it is astonishing to read how soon the poor sava- 
ges learned to estimate these blessings — they likewise made 
known to them a thousand remedies, by which the most invet- 
erate diseases are alleviated and healed; and that they might 
comprehend the benefits, and enjoy the comforts of these med- 
icines, they previously introduced among them the. diseases 
which they were calculated to cure. By these, and a variety of 
other methods, was the condition of these poor savages won- 
derfully improved ; they acquired a thousand wants, of which 
they had before been ignorant ; and as he has most sources of 
happiness who has most wants to be gratified, they were doubt- 
lessly rendered a much happier race of beings. 

But the most important branch of civilization, and which has 
most strenuously been extolled by the zealous and pious fathers 
of the Romish church, is the introduction of the christian faith. 
It was truly a sight that might well inspire horror, to behold 
these savages stumbling among the dark mountains of pagan* 
ism, and guilty of the most horrible ignorance of religion. It 
is true, they neither stole nor defrauded ; they were sober, fru- 
gal, continent, and faithful to their word ; but though they act- 
ed right habitually, it was all in vain, unless they acted so from 



106 young lady's reader. 

precept. The new comers, therefore, used every method to in- 
duce them to embrace and practise the true religion — except in- 
deed, that of setting them the example. 

But notwithstanding all these complicated labors for their 
good, such was the unparalleled obstinacy of these stubborn 
wretches, that they ungratefully refused to acknowledge the 
strangers as their benefactors, and persisted in disbelieving the 
doctrines they endeavored to inculcate; most insolently alleg- 
ing that from their conduct, the advocates of Christianity did 
not seem to believe in it themselves. Was not this too much 
for human patience ? — would not one suppose that the benign 
visitants from Europe, provoked at their credulity, and dis- 
couraged by their stiff-necked obstinacy, would forever have 
abandoned their shores, and consigned them to their original 
ignorance and misery? — But no — so zealous were they to ef- 
fect the temporal comfort and eternal salvation of these pagan 
infidels, that they even proceeded from the milder means of per- 
suasion, to the more painful and troublesome one of persecu- 
tion, let loose among them whole troops of fiery monks and 
furious bloodhounds — purified them by fire and sword, by stake 
and fagot ; in consequence of which indefatigable measures, 
the cause of christian love and charity was so rapidly advan- 
ced, that in a very few years not one-fifth of the number of un- 
believers existed in South America, that were found there at 
the time of its discovery. 

What stronger right need the European settlers advance to 
the country, than this ? Have not whole nations of uninform- 
ed savages been made acquainted with a thousand imperious 
wants and indispensable comforts, of which they were before 
wholly ignorant? — Have they not been literally hunted and 
smoked out of the dens and lurking-places of ignorance and 
infidelity, and absolutely scourged into the right path? Have 
not the temporal things, the vain baubles and filthy lucre of 
this world, which were too apt to engage their worldly and sel- 
fish thoughts, been benevolently taken from them ? and have 
they not, instead thereof, been taught to bet their affections on 
things above ? — And finally, to use the words of a reverend 
Spanish father, in a letter to his superior in Spain — " Can any 
one have the presumption to say, that these savage pagans have 
yielded any thing more than an inconsiderable recompense to 
their benefactors, in surrendering to them a little pitiful tract of 
this dirty sublunary planet, in exchange for a glorious inheri- 
tance in the kingdom of heaven !" 



IRONY. 107 

Here then are three complete and undeniable sources of 
right established, any one of which was more than ample to es- 
tablish a property in the newly-discovered regions of America. 
Now, so it has happened in certain parts of this delightful quar- 
ter of the globe, that the right of discovery has been so strenu- 
ously asserted — the influence of cultivation so industriously 
extended, and the progress of salvation and civilization so zeal- 
ously prosecuted, that, what with their attendant wars, perse- 
cutions, oppressions, diseases, and other partial evils that often 
hang on the skirts of great benefits — the savage aborigines 
have somehow or another, been utterly annihilated — and this 
all at once brings me to a fourth right, which is worth all the 
others put together. — For the original claimants to the soil be- 
ing all dead and buried, and no one remaining to inherit or dis- 
pute the soil, the Spaniards, as the next immediate occupants, 
entered upon the possession as clearly as the hangman suc- 
ceeds to the clothes of the malefactor — and as they have Black- 
stone, and all the learned expounders of the law on their side, 
they may set all actions of ejectment at defiance — and this 
last right may be entitled the right by extermination, or in other 
words, the right by gunpowder. 

But lest any scruples of conscience should remain on this 
head, and to settle the question of right forever, his holiness 
Pope Alexander VI. issued a bull, by which he generously 
granted the newly-discovered quarter of the globe to the Span- 
iards and Portuguese; who, thus having law and gospel on 
their side, and being inflamed with great spiritual zeal, showed 
the pagan savages neither favor nor affection, but prosecuted 
the work of discovery, colonization, civilization, and extermin- 
ation, with ten times more fury than ever. 

Thus were the European worthies who first discovered 
America, clearly entitled to the soil; and not only entitled to 
the soil, but likewise to the eternal thanks of these infidel sav- 
ages, for having come so far, endured so many perils by sea 
and land, and taken such unwearied pains, for no other pur- 
pose but to improve their forlorn, uncivilized, and heathenish 
condition — for having made them acquainted with the comforts 
of life ; for having introduced among them the light of reason, 
and finally — for having hurried them out of the world, to en- 
joy its reward! 

But as argument is never so well understood by us selfish 
mortals as when it comes home to ourselves, and as I am par- 
ticularly anxious that this question should be put to rest forever, 



108 young lady's reader. 

I will suppose a parallel case, by way of arousing the candid 
attention of my readers. 

Let us suppose, then, that the inhabitants of the moon, by 
astonishing advancement in science, and by profound insight 
into that lunar philosophy, the mere flickerings of which have 
of late years dazzled the feeble optics, and addled the shallow 
brains of the good people of our globe — let us suppose, I say, 
that the inhabitants of the moon, by these means, had arrived 
at such a command of their energies, such an enviable state of 
perfectibility, as to control the elements, and navigate the 
boundless regions of space. Let us suppose a roving crew of 
these soaring philosophers, in the course of an aerial voyage of 
discovery among the stars, should chance to alight upon this 
outlandish planet. 

A.nd here I beg my readers will not have the uncharitable- 
ness to smile, as is too frequently the fault of volatile readers, 
when persuing the grave speculations of philosophers. I am 
far from indulging in any sportive vein at present ; nor is the 
supposition I have been making, so wild as many may deem it. 
It has long been a very serious and anxious question with me, 
and many a time and oft, in the course of my overwhelming 
cares and contrivances for the welfare and protection of this 
my native planet, have I lain awake whole nights debating in 
my mind, whether it were most probable we should first discov- 
er and civilize the moon, or the moon discover and civilize our 
globe. Neither would the prodigy of sailing in the air and 
cruizing among the stars, be a whit more astonishing and in- 
comprehensible to us, than was the European mystery of nav- 
igating floating castles through the world of waters, to the sim- 
ple savages. We have already discovered the art of coasting 
along the serial shores of our planet, by means of balloons, as 
the savages had of venturing along their sea-coasts in canoes ; 
and the disparity between the former, and the aerial vehicles of 
the philosophers from the moon, might not be greater than that 
between the bark canoes of the savages, and the mighty ships of 
their discoverers. I might here pursue an endless chain of 
similar speculations ; but as they would be unimportant to my 
subject, I abandon them to my reader, particularly if he be a 
philosopher, as matters well worthy of his attentive considera- 
tion. 

To return then to my supposition — let us suppose that the 
aerial visitants I have mentioned, possessed of vastly superior 
knowledge to ourselves ; that is to say, possessed of superior 



IRONY. 109 

knowledge in the art of extermination — riding on hippogriffs — 
defended with impenetrable armor — armed with concentrated 
sunbeams, and provided with vast engines, to hurl enormous 
moon-stones : in short, let us suppose them, if our vanity will 
permit the supposition, as superior to us in knowledge, and 
consequently in power, as the Europeans were to the Indians, 
when they first discovered them. All this is very possible ; it 
is only our self-sufficiency that makes us think otherwise; and 
I warrant the poor savages, before ihey had any knowledge of 
the white men, armed in all the terrors of glittering steel and 
tremendous gunpowder, were as perfectly convinced that they 
themselves were the wisest, the most virtuous, powerful, and 
perfect of created beings, as are at this present moment, the 
lordly inhabitants of old England, the volatile populace of 
France, or even the self-satisfied citizens of this most enlight- 
ened republic. 

Let us suppose, moreover, that the serial voyagers, finding 
this planet to be nothing but a howling wilderness, inhabited by 
us poor savages and wild beasts, shall take formal possession 
of it in the name of his most gracious and philosophic excel- 
lency, the man in the moon. Finding, however, that their num- 
bers are incompetent to hold it in complete subjection, on ac- 
count of the ferocious barbarity of its inhabitants ; they shall 
take our worthy President, the King of England, the Emperor 
of Hayti, the mighty Bonaparte, and the great King of Ban- 
tam, and returning to their native planet, shall carry them to 
court, as were the Indian chiefs led about as spectacles in the 
courts of Europe. 

Then making such obeisance as the etiquette of the court re- 
quires, they shall address the puissant man in the moon, in, as 
near as I can conjecture, the following terms : 

" Most serene and mighty Potentate, whose dominions ex- 
tend as~far as eye can reach, who rideth on the Great Bear, 
useth the sun as a looking-glass, and maintaineth unrivaled 
control over tides, madmen, and sea-crabs : we, thy liege sub- 
jects, have just returned from a voyage of discovery, in the 
course of which we have landed and taken possession of that 
obscure, little, dirty planet which thou beholdest rolling at a 
distance. The five uncouth monsters which we have brought 
into this august presence, were once very important chiefs 
among their fellow-savages, who are a race of beings totally 
destitute of the common attributes of humanity ; and differing 
in every thing from the inhabitants of the moon, inasmuch as 

10 



110 YOUNG LADY'S READER. 

they carry their heads upon their shoulders, instead of under 
their arms — have two eyes instead of one — are utterly desti- 
tute of tails, and of a variety of unseemly complexions, par- 
ticularly of a horrible whiteness — instead of pea-green. 

" We have, moreover, found these miserable savages sunk 
into a state of the utmost ignorance and depravity. In a word, 
they have scarcely a gleam of true philosophy among them, but 
are, in fact, utter heretics, ignoramuses, and barbarians. Ta- 
king compassion, therefore, on the sad condition of these sublu- 
nary wretches, we have endeavored, while we remained on their 
planet, to introduce among them the light of reason — and the 
comforts of the moon. We have treated them to mouthfuls of 
moonshine, and draughts of nitrous oxyde, which they swallow- 
ed with incredible voracity, particularly the females ; and we 
have likewise endeavored to instil into them the precepts of lu- 
nar philosophy. We have insisted upon their renouncing the 
contemptible shackles of religion and common sense, and ador- 
ing the profound, omnipotent, and all-perfect energy, and the ec- 
static, immutable, immovable perfection. But such was the un- 
paralleled obstinacy of these wretched savages, that they per- 
sisted in cleaving to their wives, and adhering to their religion, 
and absolutely set at nought the sublime doctrines of the moon — 
nay, among other abominable heresies, they even went so far 
as blasphemously to declare, that this ineffable planet was made 
of nothing more nor less than green cheese !" 

At these words, the great man in the moon (being a very pro- 
found philosopher,) shall fall into a terrible passion, and pos- 
sessing equal aiuhority over things that do not belong to him, as 
did whilome his holiness the Pope, shall forthwith issue a for- 
midable bull, specifying " That, whereas a certain crew of luna- 
tics have lately discovered, and taken possession of a newly 
discovered planet called the earth — and that whereas it is inhab- 
ited by none but a race of two-legged animals, that carry their 
heads on their shoulders instead of under their arms ; cannot 
talk the lunatic language ; have two eyes instead of one ; are 
destitute of tails, and of a horrible whiteness, instead of pea- 
green — therefore, and for a variety of other excellent reasons, 
they are considered incapable of possessing any property in 
the planet they infest, and the right and title to it are confirmed 
to its original discoverers. — And furthermore, the colonists who 
are now about to depart to the aforesaid planet, are authorized 
and commanded to use every means to convert these infidel 



IRONY. Ill 

savages from the darkness of Christianity, and make them thor- 
ough and absolute lunatics." 

In consequence of this benevolent bull, our philosophic ben- 
efactors go to work with hearty zeal. They seize upon our 
fertile territories, scourge us from our rightful possessions, re- 
lieve us from our wives, and when we are unreasonable enough 
to complain, they will turn upon us and say, Miserable barba- 
rians ! ungrateful wretches ! have we not come thousands of 
miles to improve your worthless planet 1 have we not fed you 
with moonshine ? have we not intoxicated you with nitrous 
oxyde ? does not our moon give you light every night, and 
have you the baseness to murmur, when we claim a pitiful re- 
turn for all these benefits ? But finding that we not only per- 
sist in absolute contempt* of their reasoning, and disbelief in 
their philosophy, but even go so far as daringly to defend our 
property, their patience shall be exhausted, and they shall re- 
sort to their superior powers of argument ; hunt us with hip- 
pogriffs, transfix us with concentrated sun-beams, demolish our 
cities with moon-stones ; until having, by main force, convert- 
ed us to the true faith, they shall graciously permit us to exist 
in the torrid deserts of Arabia, or the frozen regions of Lap- 
land, there to enjoy the blessings of civilization, and the 
charms of lunar philosophy, in much the same manner as the 
reformed and enlightened savages of this country are kindly 
suffered to inhabit the inhospitable forests of the north, or the 
impenetrable wilderness of South America. 



MODERN IMPROVEMENTS.— Halt,eck. 

We owe the ancients something. You have read 
Their works, no doubt — at least, in a translation ; 

Yet there was argument in what he said, 
I scorn equivocation or evasion, 

And own, it must, in candor, be confest, 

They were an ignorant set of men at best. 

'T was their misfortune to be born too soon 
By centuries, and in the wrong place too ; 

They never saw a steam-boat, or balloon, 
Velocipede, or Quarterly Review ; 



112 YOUNG LADY'S READER. 

Or wore a pair of Bach's black satin breeches, 
Or read an almanac, or C — n's speeches. 

In short, in every thing we far outshine 'em — 
Art, science, taste, and talent ; and a stroll 

Thro' this enlightened city would refine 'em 
More than ten years' hard study of the whole 

Their genius has produced of rich and rare — 

God bless the corporation and the mayor! 

And on our city-hall a justice stands ; 

A neater form was never made of board y 
Holding majestically in her hands 

A pair of steelyards and a wopden sword, 
And looking down with complaisant civility — 
Emblem of dignity and durability. 



VISION 



THE MAYFLOWER.— E. Everett. 

Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, 
the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects 
of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold 
it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the 
tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months 
pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them 
not the sight of the wished for shore. I see them now scantily 
supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their 
ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route ; 
and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high 
and giddy waves. The awful voice of the storm howls through 
the rigging. The laboring masts seem straining from their 
base ; — the dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; — the ship 
leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow ; — the ocean 
breaks, and settles with engulphing floods over the floating 



VISION. 113 

deck, and beats with deadening weight against the staggered 
vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their 
all but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five 
months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak 
and weary from the voyage — poorly armed, scantily provisioned, 
depending on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of 
beer on board, drinking nothing but water on shore, — without 
shelter, — -without means, — surrounded by hostile tribes. Shut 
now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of hu- 
man probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of 
adventurers. 



ELIJAH AT MOUNT HOREB.— Krummacheh. 

" Go forth," it had been said to Elijah, " and stand upon the 
mount before the Lord." The prophet hears it, and leaves 
his cave : and no sooner is he gone forth, than signs occur, 
which announce to him the approach of the Almighty. The 
sacred historian here, indeed, depicts in simple language a most 
sublime scene. The first sign was a tremendous wind. Just 
before, probably, the deepest silence had prevailed throughout 
this dreary wilderness. Suddenly all is in the most dreadful 
uproar about him. The mountain-tempest breaks forth, and 
the bursting rocks thunder as if the four winds, having been 
confined there, had in an instant broken from their prisons to 
fight together. The clouds are driven about in the sky like 
squadrons of combatants rushing to the conflict. The sandy 
desert is like a raging sea tossing its curling billows to the sky. 
Sinai is agitated, as if the terrors of the law-giving were re- 
newing around it. The prophet feels the majesty of Jehovah; 
it is awful and appalling. It is not a feeling of peace, and of 
the Lord's blissful nearness, which possesses Elijah's soul in 
this tremendous scene ; it is rather a feeling of distressing dis- 
tance ; " a strong wind went before the Lord, but the Lord was 
not in the wind." 

The terrors of an earthquake next ensue. The very founda- 
tions of the hills shake and are removed. The mountains and 
the rocks, which were rent by the mighty wind, threaten now to 
fall upon one another. Hills sink down and valleys rise ; chasms 
yawn and horrible depths unfold, as if the earth was removed 
out of its place. The prophet, surrounded by the ruins of 

10* 



114 YOUNG LADY'S READER. 

nature, feels still more of that divine majesty which " looketh 
upon the earth, and it trembleth." But he still remains without 
any gracious communication of Jehovah in the inner man. 
The earthquake was only a second herald of the Deity.. It 
went before the Lord, " but the Lord was not in the earth- 
quake." 

When this had ceased, an awful fire passes by. As the 
winds had done before, so now the flames come upon him from 
every side, and the deepest shades of night, are turned into the 
light of day. Elijah, lost in adoring astonishment, beholds the 
awfully sublime spectacle, and the inmost sensation of his heart 
must have been that of surprise and dread ; but he enjoys as 
yet no delightful sense of the Divine presence, " The Lord was 
not in the fire." 

The fire disappears, and tranquillity, like the stillness of the 
sanctuary, spreads gradually over all nature ; and it seems as 
if every hill and dale, yea, the whole earth and skies, lay in 
silent homage at the footstool of eternal Majesty. The very 
mountains seem to worship ; the whole scene is hushed to pro- 
found peace : and now, he hears " a still small voice. And it 
was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his 
mantle," in token of reverential awe and adoring wonder, and 
went forth, " and stood at the entrance of the cave." 



BLOODY BROOK.— E. Everett. 

As I stand on this hallowed spot, my mind filled with the 
traditions of that disastrous day, surrounded by these enduring 
natural memorials, impressed with the touching ceremonies we 
have just witnessed, — the affecting incidents of the bloody 
scene crowd upon my imagination. This compact and pros- 
perous village disappears, and a few scattered log cabins are 
seen, in the bosom of the primeval forest, clustering for protec- 
tion around the rude block-house in the centre. A corn-field or 
two has been rescued from the all-surrounding wilderness, and 
here and there the yellow husks are heard to rustle in the 
breeze, that comes loaded with the mournful sighs of the melan- 
choly pine woods. Beyond, the interminable forest spreads in 
every direction, the covert of the wolf, of the rattle-snake, of 
the savage ; and between its gloomy copses, what is now a 
fertile and cultivated meadow, stretches out a dreary expanse 



THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 115 

of unreclaimed morass. I look, — I listen. All is still, — sol- 
emnly, — frightfully still. No voice of human activity or en- 
joyment breaks the dreary silence of nature, or mingles with 
the dirge of the woods and water-courses. All seems peaceful 
and still : — and yet there is a strange heaviness in the fall of 
the leaves in that wood that skirts the road ; — there is an un- 
natural flitting in those shadows ; — there is a plashing sound in 
the waters of that brook, which makes the flesh creep with 
horror. Hark ! it is the click of a gun-lock from that thicket ; 
— no, it is a pebble, that has dropped from the over-hanging 
cliff, upon the rock beneath. It is, it is the gleaming blade of 
a scalping-knife ; — no, it is a sun-beam, thrown off from that 
dancing ripple. It is, it is the red feather of a savage chief, 
peeping from behind that maple tree ; — no, it is a leaf, which 
September has touched with her many-tinted pencil. And 
now a distant drum is heard ; yes, that is a sound of life, — 
conscious, proud life. A single fife breaks upon the ear, — a 
stirring strain. It is one of the marches to which the stern 
warriors of Cromwell moved over the field at Naseby and 
Worcester. There are no loyal ears, to take offense at a puri- 
tanical march in a transatlantic forest ; and hard by, at Hadley, 
there is a gray-haired fugitive, who followed the cheering strain, 
at the head of his division in the army of the great usurper. 
The warlike note grows louder ; — I hear the tread of armed 
men. 



THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 



MAN'S KNOWLEDGE FINITE.— Job. 

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said, 
Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without know- 
ledge ? Gird up now thy loins like a man ; for I will demand 
of thee, and answer thou me. Where wast thou when I laid 
the foundations of the earth ? declare, if thou hast understand- 
ing. Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest 1 
or who hath stretched the line upon it ? Whereupon are the 
foundations thereof fastened? or who laid the corner-stone 



116 YOUNG LADY*S itEADER. 

thereof, when the morning-stars sang together, and all the sons 
of God shouted for joy ? Or who shut up the sea with doors, 
when it break forth, as if it had issued out of the womb ? when 
I made the cloud the garment thereof, and thick darkness a 
swaddling-band for it, and brake up for it my decreed place, 
and set bars and doors, and said, Hitherto shalt thou come, but 
no further; and here shall thy proud waves be stayed? Hast 
thou commanded the morning since thy days ; and caused the 
day-spring to know his place, that it might take hold of the 
ends of the earth, that the wicked might be shaken out of it? 
It is turned as clay to the seal ; and they stand as a garment. 
And from the wicked their light is withholden, and the high 
arm shall be broken. Hast thou entered into the springs of 
the sea ? or hast thou walked in the search of the depth ? 
Have the gates of death been opened unto thee ? or hast thou 
seen the doors of the shadow of death ? Hast thou perceived 
the breadth of the earth ? declare if thou knowest it all. Where 
is the way where light dvvelleth ? and as for darkness, where 
is the place thereof, that thou shouldest take it to the bound 
thereof, and that thou shouldest know the paths to the house 
thereof? Knowest thou it, because thou wast then born ? or 
because the number of thy days is great ? 

Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow; or hast thou 
seen the treasures of the hail, which I have reserved against the 
time of trouble, against the day of battle and war ? By what way 
is the light parted, which scattereth the east wind upon the earth ? 
Who hath divided a water-course for the overflowing of waters ; 
or a way for the lightning of thunder; to cause it to rain on the 
earth, where no man is ; on the wilderness, wherein there is no 
man ; to satisfy the desolate and waste ground ; and to cause 
the bud of the tender herb to spring forth ? Hath the rain a 
father ? or who hath begotten the drops of dew ? Out of whose 
womb came the ice ? and the hoary frost of heaven, who hath 
gendered it ? The waters are hid as with a stone, and the face 
of the deep is frozen. Canst thou bind the sweet influences of 
Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion ? Canst thou bring forth 
Mazzaroth in his season ? or canst thou guide Arcturus with 
his sons ? Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven ? canst 
thou set the dominion thereof in the earth ? Canst thou lift 
up thy voice to the clouds, that abundance of waters may cover 
thee ? Canst thou send lightnings, that they may go, and say 
unto thee, Here we are ? Who hath put wisdom in the inward 
parts ? or who hath given understanding to the heart ? Who 



THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 117 

can number the clouds in wisdom ? or who can stay the bottles 
of heaven, when the dust groweth into hardness, and the clods 
cleave fast together ? Wilt thou hunt the prey for the lion, or 
fill the appetite of the young lions, when they couch in their 
dens, and abide in the covert to lie in wait ? Who provided 
for the raven his food ? when his young ones cry unto God, they 
wander for lack of meat. 



THE LAST MAN.— Campbell. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 

The sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep, 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of time ! 
I saw the last of human mold, 
That shall creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime ! 

The sun's eye had a sickly glare, 

The earth with age was wan, 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man ! 
Some had expired in fight, — the brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands ; 

In plague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all were dumb ! 

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words and high, 
That shook the sere leaves from the wood 

As if a storm passed by, 
Saying, We are twins in death, proud sun, 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'T is mercy bids thee go ; 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears. 

That shall no longer flow. 



118 YOUNG LADY'S READER. 

What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth 

The vassals of his will ; — 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
Thou dim discrowned king of day : 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Healed not a passion or a pang 

Entailed on human hearts. 

Go — let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men, 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again. 
Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe ; 
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies 

To watch ihy fading fire ; 
Test of all sunless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death — 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall, — 
The majesty of darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost ! 

This spirit shall return to Him 

That gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No ! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine * 

By Him recalled to breath, 
Who captive led captivity, 
Who robbed the grave of victory, — 

And took the sting from death ! 



THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 119 

Go, sun, while mercy holds me up 

On nature's awful waste, 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — 
Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 

On earth's sepulchral clod, 
The dark'ning universe defy 
To quench his immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God ! 



THE PLANETS.— Taylor. 

The glass brings, for example, the disk of Jupiter before us ; 
so that we may fix the eye on this side, or on the other, of his 
cloud-belted surface : — we clearly distinguish the forms of these 
wreaths of lurid vapor ; or we catch the transit of one of his 
moons — follow the speck of shadow in its hasty course along 
the equator of the stupendous planet, very much in the same 
way in which we watch the shadow of a cloud, as it moves 
across the bosom of a distant sunny hill. Although the road 
thither baffles us in the attempt to mete it out into portions, we 
can just imagine ourselves to have achieved the passage, and 
to set foot upon that vast rotund ; and can faintly conceive of 
the scene that would there present itself, where, athwart prodi- 
gious valleys (each capacious enough to receive an Atlantic, or 
through which the waves of all our oceans might quietly flow, 
as the Ganges glides in its bed,) the deep shadows of the over- 
hanging mountains are flitting with giddy haste, from side to 
side ; while the sun rushes through the ample skies to accom- 
plish his five hours of day. Or we remain at our post of ob- 
servation through the brief moments of night ; and are dizzy 
while we gaze upon the shining multitude of moons and stars, 
that, bursting up from the horizon, chase each other with visible 
celerity, from east to west, like a routed host, hotly followed by 
the foe. 

Thus, and with these aids which the telescope affords us, or 
which the imagination (authentically informed by facts) sup- 
plies, may we make a stage outward through the skies : nor 
are such efforts of the mind to be accounted vain and fantastic, 
like those waking dreams wherein we combine extravagant 



120 young lady's reader. 

images of things nowhere existing, and in themselves prepos- 
terous : for we are now endeavoring to fix the faculty of con- 
ception upon objects that are palpable, and real, and which 
(remote as they may be) are as truly cognizable by the sight 
as are the cliffs of an adjacent continent. There is no extrava- 
gance in this attempt ; but a real utility, inasmuch as an im- 
portant lesson is obtained from the vivid impression of the 
extent of God's visible dominion. The same force of concep- 
tion which has carried the mind to the orbit of Jupiter, will 
transport it to that of Saturn, where is seen a sombre splendor, 
suffused on all sides, less, apparently, from the distant and 
diminished sun, than from the broad surfaces of the adjacent 
rings, which almost blend night and day, by overshadowing the 
one, and illuminating the other. Or taking once again an 
adventurous flight, further than before, we reach the outermost 
limit of our system, and stand upon that vast and solitary 
planet which, as if guardian of the whole, slowly walks the 
rounds of the solar skies, while it fulfils its term of fourscore 
years and more. The sun has now shrunk almost to a com- 
parison with the stars ; or looks only like the chiefest and most 
resplendent of them : so that the mild twilight of that noon 
does not quite exclude their rival radiance. 



HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY, 

Coleridge. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
Tn his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! 
Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass: methinks tbou piercest it 
As with a wedge! But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy chrystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 



THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 121 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy : 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise 
Thou ovvest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! 
O struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald : wake, wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
For ever shattered and the same for ever? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came,) 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
11 



122 young lady's header. 

Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest hue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
"V e signs and wonders of the element ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as 1 raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! 
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



THE FALL OF NiAGARA.— Brai>ard. 

Labitur et labetur. 

The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain 
While I look upward to thee. It would seem 
As if God poured thee from his " hollow hand," 
And hung his bow upon thy awful front ; 
And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him 



THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 123 

Who dwelt in Patmos for his Savior's sake, 
" The sound of many waters ;" and had bade 
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 
And notch his cent'ries in the eternal rocks. 

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, 
That hear the question of that voice sublime? 
Oh ! what are all the notes that ever rung 
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side! 
Yea, what is all the riot man can make 
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar! 
And yet bold babbler, what art thou to Him 
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far 
Above its loftiest mountains ? — a light wave, 
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. 



MARTYRDOM OF POLYCARP.— Milner. 

When he had finished his prayers, having made mention of 
all whom he had ever known, small and great, noble and vulgar, 
and of the whole Catholic Church throughout the world, the 
hour of departing being come, they set him on an ass and led him 
to the city. The irenarch Herod, and his father Nicetes, met 
him, who taking him up into their chariot, began to advise him, 
asking, ' What harm is it to say, Lord Caesar! — and to sacri- 
fice and be safe V At first he was silent, but being pressed, 
he said, ' I will not follow your advice.' When they could 
not persuade him, they treated him ahusively, and thrust him 
out of the chariot, so that in falling he bruised his thigh. But 
he, still unmoved as if he had suffered nothing, went on cheer- 
fully under the conduct of his guards to the Stadium. There 
the tumult being so great that few could hear any thing, a voice 
from heaven said to Polycarp, as he entered on the Stadium, 
'Be strong, Polycarp, and behave yourself like a man.' — None 
saw the speaker, but many of us heard the voice. 

When he was brought to the tribunal, there was a great 
tumult, as soon as it was generally understood that Polycarp 
was apprehended. The proconsul asked him, if he was Poly- 
carp ; to which he assented. The former then began to exhort 
him : — ' Have pity on thy own great age — and the like. Swear 
by the fortune of Caesar— -repent—say — Take away the athe- 



124 young lady's reader. 

ists.' Polycarp, wilh a grave aspect, beholding all the multi- 
tude, waiving his hand to them, and looking up to heaven, said, 
'Take away the atheists.' 'The proconsul urging him, and 
saying, 'Swear, and I will release thee, — reproach Christ;' 
Polycarp said, ' Eighty-and-six years have I served him, and 
he hath never wronged me, and how can I blaspheme my King 
who hath saved me V 



DIFFUSE STYLE. 



RECIPROCITIES.— Dr, Johnson. 

Beasts of each kind their followers spare ; 
Bear lives in amity with bear. 

" The world," says Locke, " has people of all sorts." As in 
the general hurry produced by the superfluities of some, and 
necessities of others, no man needs to stand still for want of 
employment, so in the innumerable gradations of ability, and 
endless varieties of study and inclination, no employment can 
be vacant for want of a man qualified to discharge it. 

Such is probably the natural state of the universe ; but it is 
so much deformed by interest and passion, that the benefit of 
^his adaptation of men to things is not always perceived. The 
folly or indigence of those who set their service to sale, in- 
clines them to boast of qualifications which they do not possess, 
and attempt business which they do not understand ; and they 
who have the power of assigning to others the task of life, are 
seldom honest or seldom happy in their nominations. Patrons 
are corrupted by avarice, cheated by credulity, or overpowered 
by"* resistless solicitation. They are sometimes too strongly 
influenced by honest prejudices of friendship, or the prevalence 
of virtuous compassion. For, whatever cool reason may di- 
rect, it is not easy for a man of tender and scrupulous goodness 
to overlook the immediate effect of his own actions, by turning 
his eyes upon remoter consequences, and to do that which must 
give present pain, for the sake of obviating evil yet unfelt, or 
securing advantages in time to come. What is distant, is in 



DIFFUSE STYLE. 125 

itself obscure, and, when we have no wish to see it, easily 
escapes our notice, or takes such a form as desire or imagina- 
tion bestows upon it. 

Every man might, for the same reason, in the multitudes that 
swarm about him, find some kindred mind with which he could 
unite in confidence and friendship ; yet we see many struggling 
single about the world, unhappy for want of an associate, and 
pining with the necessity of confining their sentiments to their 
own bosoms. 

This inconvenience arises, in like manner, from struggles of 
the will against the understanding. It is not often difficult to 
find a suitable companion, if every man would be content with 
such as he is qualified to please. But if vanity tempts him to 
forsake his rank, and post himself among those with whom no 
common interest or mutual pleasure can ever unite him, he must 
always live in a state of unsocial separation, without tenderness 
and without trust. 

There are many natures which can never approach within a 
certain distance, and which, when any irregular motive impels 
them towards contact, seem to start back from each other by 
some invincible repulsion. There are others which immediately 
cohere whenever they come into the reach of mutual attraction, 
and with very little formality or preparation mingle intimately 
as soon as they meet. Every man, whom either business or 
curiosity has thrown at large into the world, will recollect many 
instances of fondness and dislike, which have forced them- 
selves upon him without the intervention of his judgment ; of 
dispositions to court some and avoid others, when he could 
assign no reason for the preference, or none adequate to the 
violence of his passions ; of influence that acted instantane- 
ously upon his mind, and which no arguments or persuasions 
could ever overcome. 

Among those with whom time and intercourse have made us 
familiar, we feel our affections divided in different proportions, 
without much regard to moral or intellectual merit. Every 
man knows some whom he cannot induce himself to trust, 
though he has no reason to suspect that they would betray him; 
those to whom he cannot complain, though he never observed 
them to want compassion ; those in whose presence he never 
can be gay, though excited by invitations to mirth and freedom; 
and those from whom he cannot be content to receive instruc- 
tion, though they never insulted his ignorance by contempt or 
ostentation. 

11* 



126 young lady's reader. 

That much regard is to be had to those instincts of kindness 
and dislike, or that reason should blindly follow them, I am far 
from intending to inculcate: it is very certain, that by indul- 
gence we may give them strength which they have not from 
nature ; and almost every example of ingratitude and treachery 
proves, that by obeying them we may commit our happiness to 
those who are very unworthy of so great a trust. But it may 
deserve to be remarked, that since few contend much with their 
inclinations, it is generally vain to solicit the good -will of those 
whom we perceive thus involuntarily alienated from us; nei- 
ther knowledge nor virtue will reconcile antipathy; and though 
officiousness may for a time be admitted, and diligence applaud- 
ed, they will at last be dismissed with coldness, or discouraged 
by neglect. 

Some have indeed an occult power of stealing upon the affec- 
tions, of exciting universal benevolence, and disposing every 
heart to fondness and friendship. But this is a felicity granted 
only to the favorites of nature. The greater part of mankind 
find a different reception from different dispositions ; they some- 
times obtain unexpected caresses from those whom they never 
flattered with uncommon regard, and sometimes exhaust all 
their arts of pleasing without effect. To these it is necessary 
to look round, and attempt every breast in which they find 
virtue sufficient for the foundation of friendship; to enter into 
the crowd, and trv whom chance will offer to their notice, till 
they fix on some temper congenial to their own, as the magnet 
rolled in the dust collects the fragments of its kindred metal 
from a thousand particles of other substances. 

Every man must have remarked the facility -with which the 
kindness of others is sometimes gained by those to whom he 
never could have imparted his own. We are by our occupa- 
tions, education, and habits of life, divided almost into different 
species, which regard one another, for the most part, with 
scorn and malignity. Each of these classes of the human 
race has desires, fears, and conversation, vexations and merri- 
ment, peculiar to itself; cares which another cannot feel; 
pleasures which he cannot partake ; and modes of expressing 
every sensation which he cannot understand. That frolic 
which shakes one man with laughter, will convulse another 
with indignation ; the strain of jocularity which in one place 
obtains treats and patronage, would in another be heard with 
indifference, and in a third with abhorrence. 



DIFFUSE STi'LE. 127 

To raise esteem we must benefit others, to procure love we 
must please them. Aristotle observes, that old men do not 
readily form friendships, because they are not easily suscepti- 
ble of pleasure. He that can contribute to the hilarity of the 
vacant hour, or partake with equal gust the favorite amusement ; 
he whose mind is employed on the same objects, and who 
therefore never harasses the understanding with unaccustomed 
ideas, will be welcomed with ardor, and left with regret, unless 
he destroys those recommendations by faults with which peace 
and security cannot consist. 

Id were happy, if, in forming friendships, virtue could concur 
with pleasure ; but the greatest part of human gratifications 
approach so nearly to vice, that few who make the delight of 
others their rule of conduct, can avoid disingenuous compli- 
ances ; yet certainly he that suffers himself to be driven or 
allured from virtue, mistakes his own interest, since he gains 
succor by means for which his friend, if ever he becomes wise, 
must scorn him, and for which at last he must scorn himself. 



POETICAL SCRIBBLERS.— Miss H. More. 

A romantic girl with a pretension to sentiment, which her 
still more ignorant friends mistake for genius, (for in the empire 
of the blind, the one-eyed are kings,) and possessing something 
of a natural ear, has perhaps in her childhood exhausted all 
the images of grief, and love, and fancy, picked up in her de- 
sultory poetical reading, in an elegy on a sick linnet, or a sonnet 
on a dead lap-dog ; she begins thenceforward to be considered 
as a prodigy in her little circle ; surrounded with fond and flat- 
tering friends, every avenue to truth is shut out; she has no 
opportunity of learning that her fame is derived, not from her 
powers, but her position; and that when an impartial critic 
shall have made all the necessary deductions, such as — that 
she is a neighbor, that she is a relation, that she is a female, 
that she is young, that she has had no advantages, that she is 
pretty, perhaps — when her verses come to be stripped of all 
their extraneous appendages, and the fair author is driven off 
her 'vantage ground of partiality, sex, and favor, she will com- 
monly sink to the level of ordinary capacities. While those 
more quiet women, who have meekly sat down in the humble 
shades of prose and prudence, by a patient perseverance in 



128 young lady's reader. 

rational studies, rise afterwards much higher in the scale of 
intellect, and acquire a much larger stock of sound knowledge, 
for far better purposes than mere display. And though it may 
seem a contradiction, yet it will generally be found true, that 
girls who take to scribble, are the least studious, the least re- 
flecting, and the least rational. They early acquire a false 
confidence in their own unassisted powers ; it becomes more 
gratifying to their natural vanity to be always pouring out their 
minds on paper, than to be drawing into them fresh ideas from 
richer sources. The original stock, small perhaps at first, is 
soon spent. The subsequent efforts grow more and more feeble, 
if the mind, which is continually exhausting itself, be not also 
continually replenished ; till the latter compositions become 
little more than reproductions of the same ideas, and fainter 
copies of the same images, a little varied and modified perhaps, 
and not a little diluted and enfeebled. 

It will be necessary to combat vigilantly that favorite plea of 
lively ignorance, that study is any enemy to originality. Correct 
the judgment, while you humble the vanity of the young, un- 
taught pretender, by convincing her that those half-formed 
thoughts and undigested ideas which she considers as proofs of 
her invention, prove only, that she wants taste and knowledge; 
that while conversation must polish, and reflection invigorate 
her ideas, she must improve and enlarge them by the accession 
of various kinds of virtuous and elegant literature ; and that 
the cultivated mind will repay with large interest the seeds 
sown in it by judicious study. Let it be observed, I am by no 
means encouraging young ladies to turn authors; I am only 
reminding them, that 

Authors before they write should read ; 

I am only putting them in mind, that to be ignorant is not to be 
original. 

These self-taught and self-dependent scribblers pant for the 
unmerited and unattainable praise of fancy and of genius, while 
they disdain the commendation of judgment, knowledge, and 
perseverance, which would probably be within their reach. 
To extort admiration, they are accustomed to boast of an im- 
possible rapidity in composing; and while they insinuate how 
little time their performances cost them, they intend you should 
infer how perfect they might have made them, had they con- 
descended to the drudgery of application ; but application with 
them implies defect of genius. They take superfluous pains 



DIFFUSE STYLE. 129 

to convince you that there was neither learning nor labor em- 
ployed in the work for which they solicit your praise. Alas ! 
the judicious eye too soon perceives it ! though it does not 
perceive that native strength and mother wit. which in works 
of real genius make some amends for the negligence which 
yet they do not justify. But instead of extolling these effu- 
sions for their facility, it would be kind in friends rather to 
blame them for their crudeness ; and when the young candi- 
dates for fame are eager to prove in how short a time such a 
poem has been struck off, it would be well to regret that they 
had not either taken a longer time, or refrained from writing 
at all ; as in the former case the work would have been less 
defective, and in the latter the writer would have discovered 
more humilitv and self-distrust. 



FEMALE ROMANCE.— Mrs. Sandford. 

Most women are inclined to be romantic. This tendency is 
not confined to the young or to the beautiful ; to the intellectual 
or to the refined. Every woman capable of strong feeling is 
susceptible of romance ; and though its degree may depend on 
external circumstances, or education, or station, or excitement, 
it generally exists, and requires only a stimulus for its develop- 
ment. 

Romance is, indeed, the charm of female character. With- 
out it no woman can be interesting ; and though its excess is a 
weakness, and one which receives but little indulgence, there 
is nothing truly generous or disinterested, which does not imply 
its existence. It is that poetry of sentiment which imparts to 
character or incident something of the beautiful or the sublime ; 
which elevates us to a higher sphere ; which gives an ardor to 
affection, and a life to thought, and a glow to imagination ; and 
which lends so warm and sunny a hue to the portraiture of life, 
that it ceases to appear the vulgar, and cold, and dull, and mo- 
notonous reality, which common sense alone would make it. 

But it is this opposition between romance and sobriety that 
excites so strong a prejudice against, the former. It is associa- 
ted in the minds of many with felly alone. A romantic, silly 
girl is the object of their contempt; and they so recoil from 
this personification of sentiment, that their chief object seems 
to be to divest themselves altogether of its delusion. Life is 



130 young lady's reader. 

to them a mere calculation ; expediency is their maxim, — pro- 
priety, their rule, — profit, ease, or comfort, their aim : and they 
have at least this advantage, — that while minds of higher tone, 
and hearts of superior sensibility, are often harassed and 
wounded, and even withered, in their passage through life, they 
proceed in their less adventurous career, neither chilled by the 
coldness, nor sickened by the meanness, nor disappointed by 
the selfishness of the world. They virtually admit, though 
they often theoretically deny, the baseness of human nature, 
and, strangers to disinterestedness themselves, they do not ex- 
pect to meet with it in others. They are content with a low 
degree of enjoyment, and are thus exempted from much poig- 
nant suffering ; and it is only when the casualties of life inter- 
fere with their individual ease, that we can perceive that they 
are not altogether insensible. 

A good deal of this phlegmatic disposition exists in many 
who are capable of higher feeling. Such persons are so afraid 
of sensibility, that they repress in themselves every thing that 
savors of it; and though we may occasionally detect it in the 
mounting flush, or in the glistening tear, or in the half-stifled 
sigh, it is in vain that we endeavor to elicit, any more explicit 
avowal. They are ashamed even of what they do betray ; and 
one would imagine, that the imputation of sensibility were 
almost a reflection on their character. They must not feel, or, 
at least, they must not allow that they feel ; for feeling has led 
so many persons wrong, that decorum can be preserved, they 
think, only by indifference. And they end in becoming really 
as callous as they wish to appear; and stifle emotion so suc- 
cessfully, that at length it ceases to give them uneasiness. 

Such is often the case with many who pass through life with 
great decorum; and though women have naturally more sensi- 
bility than the other sex, they too, sometimes, consider its indul- 
gence altogether wrong. Yet, if its excess be foolish, it is surely 
a mistake to attempt to suppress it altogether ; for such attempt 
will either produce a dangerous revulsion, or, if successful, 
will spoil the character. One would rather, almost, that a 
woman were ever so romantic, than thai she always thought, 
and felt, and spoke by rule ; and should deem it preferable that 
her sensibility brought upon her occasional distress, than that 
she always calculated the degree of her feeling. 

Life has its romance, and to this it owes much of its charm. 
It is not that every woman is a heroine, and every individual 
history a novel ; but there are scenes and incidents in real life 



DIFFUSE STYLE. 131 

so peculiar, and often so poetic, that we need not be indebted 
to fiction for the development of romance. Christians will 
trace such scenes and incidents immediately to Providence, and 
they do so with affectionate and confiding hearts ; and the more 
affecting or remarkable these may be, the more clearly do they 
recognize the Divine interference. They regard them as re- 
miniscences of heaven, to recall to them their connection with 
it, and remind them, that whatever there may be to interest or 
excite their feelings here, there is infinitely more to affect and 
warm their hearts in the glorious and glowing prospects be- 
yond. 

It is natural that women should be very susceptible to such 
impressions ; that they should view life with almost a poetic 
eye ; and that they should be peculiarly sensitive to its vicissi- 
tudes. And though a Quixotic quest after adventures is as silly 
as it is vain ; and to invest every trifle with importance, or to 
see something marvelous in every incident, is very preposter- 
ous : there is no reason why the imagination should not grasp 
whatever is picturesque, and the mind dwell upon whatever is 
impressive, and the heart warm with whatever is affecting in 
the changes and chances of our pilgrimage. There is, indeed, 
a great, deal of what is low and mean in whatever is connected 
with this world,— quite enough to sully the most glowing pic- 
ture ; but let us sometimes view life with its golden tints, — let 
us sometimes taste its ambrosial dews, — let us sometimes 
breathe its more ethereal atmosphere : and let us do so, not as 
satisfied with any thing it can afford, — not as entranced by any 
of its illusions ; but. as those who catch, even in this dull mir- 
ror, a shadowy delineation of a brighter world, and who pant 
for what is pure, celestial, and eternal. This is surely better 
than clipping the wings of imagination, or restraining the 
impulses of feeling, or reducing all our joys and sorrows to 
mere matters of calculation or of sense. 

They are indeed to be pitied, who err in the opposite extreme 
— whose happiness or misery is entirely ideal ; but we have 
within us such a capacity of both, independent of all outward 
circumstances, and such a power of extracting either from 
every circumstance, that it is surely wiser to discipline such a 
faculty, than to disallow its influence. 

Youth is, of course, the season for romance. Its buoyant 
spirit must soar, till weighed down by earthly care. It is in 
youth that the feelings are warm, and the fancy fresh ; and that 
there has been no blight to chill the one or to wither the other. 



132 i young lady's reader. 

And it is in youth that hope lends its cheering ray, and love its 
genial influence; and that our friends smile upon us, and our 
companions do not cross us, and our parents are still at hand to 
cherish us in their bosoms, and sympathize in all our young and 
ardent feelings. It is then that the world seems so fair, and 
our fellow-men so kind, that we charge with spleen any who 
would prepare us for disappointment; and accuse those of 
misanthropy who would warn our too confiding hearts. And 
though in maturer life we may smile at the romance of youth, 
and lament, perhaps, its aberrations, yet must we often regret 
the depth of our young emotions, the disinterestedness of our 
young affections, and that enthusiasm of purpose which, alas ! 
we soon grow too wise to cherish. 

Young women are peculiarly liable to enthusiasm of every 
kind. They are so gentle, and so tender, and so imaginative ; 
and they have often so much leisure to indulge in reveries and 
ecstasies, that it is not to be wondered at that they should be oc- 
casionally somewhat visionary. Yet their extravagance has 
contributed more than any thing else to bring discredit upon 
sentiment. Its affectation often sickens more even than its 
folly. It is so distressing to see a young woman sighing, and 
weeping, and dreaming away her existence ; one moment in a 
hysteric, and another in a faint ; always getting up a scene, or 
supporting a part, that one is almost prepared to accede to any 
tirade against sentiment, the caricature of which is'so truly ab- 
surd. Young women should be taught the folly of sentimental- 
ism. They should be taught, that though it is a very right 
thing, and a very serious thing, to feel, it is a very wrong thing 
and a very silly thing to be languishing and affected. They 
should learn to look at life through a faithful medium ; to see its 
long perspective in all its true variety of light and shade, of 
what is beautiful and what is depressing. And if, even while 
they allow the preponderance to the latter, their eye will still 
seek out and linger on some few bright spots, and their young 
anticipations will scarcely submit to be sobered by any thing 
but by their own experience, they should, on this account espe- 
cially, learn to stretch their view beyond this earthly prospect, 
to rest their sight upon a far distant land, where there is, in- 
deed, every thing to transport, and every thing to satisfy; 
where ihere are scenes too vivid for imagination to paint, and 
pleasures too sublime for intellect to conceive. 



133 



CONCISE STYLE 



OF EDUCATION IN A REPUBLICAN GOVERNMENT.— MON- 
TESQUIEU. 

It is in a republican government that the whole power of 
education is required. The fear of despotic governments rises 
naturally of itself, amidst threats and punishments ; the horror 
of monarchies is favored by the passions, and favors them in 
its turn ; but virtue is a self renunciation, which is always ar- 
duous and painful. This virtue may be defined the love of the 
laws and of our country. As this love requires a constant 
preference of public to private interest, it is the source of all 
particular virtues ; for they are nothing more than this very pre- 
ference itself. This love is peculiarly proper to democracies. 
In these alone the government is intrusted to private citizens. 
Now government is like every thing else ; to preserve it, we 
must love it. Has it ever been heard that kings were not fond 
of monarchy, or that despotic princes hated arbitrary power? 
Every thing, therefore, depends on establishing this love in a 
republic, and to inspire it ought to be the principal business of 
education ; but the surest way of instilling it into children, is 
for parents to set them an example. People have it generally 
in their power to communicate their ideas to their children; 
but they are still better able to transfuse their passions. If it 
happens otherwise, it is because the impressions made at home 
are effaced by those ihey have received abroad. It is not the 
young people that degenerate : they are not spoiled till those of 
mature age are already sunk into corruption. 



ON STUDIES.— Lord Bacon. 



Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. 
Their chief use for delight, is in privateness and retiring; for 
ornament, is in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judgment 
and disposition of business ; for expert men can execute, and 
perhaps judge of particulars, one by one : but the general coun- 

12 



134 young lady's reader. 

sels, and the plots and marshaling of affairs, come best from 
those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is 
sloth ; to use too much for ornament, is affectation ; to make 
judgment wholly by their rules, is the humor of a scholar: 
they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience : for natu- 
ral abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study; 
and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at 
large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men 
contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use 
them; for they teach not their own use ; but that is a wisdom 
without them, and above them, won by observation. Read not 
to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, 
nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. 
Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some 
few to be chewed and digested ; that is, some books are to be 
readonly in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and 
some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. 
Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of 
them by others ; but that would be only in the less important 
arguments, and the meaner sort of books ; else distilled books 
are, like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading 
maketh a full man ; conference a ready man ; and writing an 
exact man ; and therefore if a man write little, he had need 
have a great memory : if he confer little, he had need have a 
present, wit: and if he read little, he had need have much cun- 
ning, to seem to know what he doth not. Histories make men 
wise; poets, witty ; the mathematics, subtle ; natural philoso- 
phy, deep ; moral, grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend; 
' Abeunt studia in mores ;' nay, there is no stand or impedi- 
ment in the wit, but may be wrought out by fit studies ; like 
as diseases of the body may by appropriate exercises ; bowl- 
ing is good for the stone and reins, shooting for the lungs and 
breast, gentle walking for the stomach, riding for the head and 
the like ; so if a man's wits be wandering, let him study the 
mathematics ; for in demonstrations, if his wit be called away 
never so little, he must begin again ; if his wit be not apt to 
distinguish or find differences, let him study the schoolmen, for 
they are ' Cymini sectores ;' if he be not apt to beat over mat- 
ters, and to call upon one thing to prove and illustrate another, 
let him study the lawyers' cases ; so every defect of the mind 
may have a special receipt. 



135 



DRY STYLE 



A MINUTE PHILOSOPHER.— Berkley. 

Whether the principles of christians or infidels are truest, 
may be made a question, but which are safest, can be none. 
Certainly if you doubt of all opinions, you must doubt of your 
own : and then, for aught you know, the christian may be 
true. The more doubt, the more room there is for faith ; a 
sceptic, of all men, having the least right to demand evidence. 
But, whatever uncertainty there may be in other points, thus 
much is certain : either there is, or is not a God : there is, or 
is not a revelation : man either is, or is not an agent : the soul 
is, or is not immortal. If the negatives are not sure, the affirm- 
atives are possible. If the negatives are improbable, the 
affirmatives are probable. In proportion as any of your inge- 
nious men finds himself unable to prove any one of these neg- 
atives, he hath grounds to suspect he may be mistaken. A mi- 
nute philosopher, therefore, that would act a consistent part, 
should have the diffidence, the modesty, and the timidity, as 
well as the doubts of a sceptic ; not pretend to an ocean of 
light, and then lead us to an abyss of darkness. If I have any 
notion of ridicule, this is most ridiculous. But your ridiculing 
what, for ought you know, may be true, I can make no sense of. 
It is neither acting as a wise man, with regard to your own in- 
terest, nor as a good man, with regard to that of your country. 

Tully saith somewhere, aut unlique religionem tolle aut usque- 
quaque conserve/, : Either let us have no religion at all, or let it 
be respected. If any single instance can be shewn, of a peo- 
ple that ever prospered without some religion, or if there be any 
religion better than the christian, propose it in the grand as- 
sembly of the nation to change our constitution, and either live 
without religion, or introduce that new religion. A sceptic, as 
well as other men, is member of a community, and can distin- 
guish between good and evil, natural or political. Be this then 
his guide as a patriot, though he be no christian. Or, if he 
doth not pretend even to this discernment, let him not pretend 
to correct or alter what he knows nothing of: neither let him 



136 young lady's reader. 

that only doubts, behave as if he could demonstrate. Timago- 
ras is wont to say, T find my country in possession of certain 
tenets : they appear to have an useful tendency, and, as such,. 
are encouraged by the legislature : they make a main part of 
our constitution : I do not find these innovators can disprove 
them, or substitute things more useful and certain in their 
stead : out of regard, therefore, to the good of mankind, and 
the laws of my country, I shall acquiesce in them. I do not 
say Timagoras is a christian, but I reckon him a patriot. Not 
to inquire in a point of so great concern, is folly, but it is still 
a higher degree of folly, to condemn without inquiring. Lysi- 
cles seemed heartily tired of this conversation. It is now 
late, said he to Alciphron, and all things are ready for our de- 
parture. 



MORALS OF CHESS.— Dr. Franklin. 

Playing at chess is the most ancient and universal game 
known among men ; for its original is beyond the memory of 
history, and it has, for numberless ages, been the amusement of 
all the civilized nations of Asia, the Persians, the Indians, and 
the Chinese. Europe has had it above a thousand-- years ; the 
Spaniards have spread it over their parts of America, and it be- 
gins to make its appearance in these States. It is so interest- 
ing in itself, as not to need the view of gain to induce engaging 
in it; and thence it is never played for money. Those, there- 
fore, who have leisure for such diversions, cannot find one that 
is more innocent; and the following piece, written with a view 
to correct (among a few young friends) some little improprie- 
ties in the practice of it, shows, at the same time, that it may, 
in its effects on the mind, be not merely innocent, but advan- 
tageous, to the vanquished as well as the victor. 

The game of chess is not merely an idle amusement. Sev- 
eral very valuable qualities of the mind, useful in the course of 
human life, are to be acquired or strengthened by it, so as to be- 
come habits, ready on all occasions. For life is a kind of 
chess, in which we have points to gain, and competitors or ad- 
versaries to contend with, and in which there is a vast variety 
of good and ill events, that are, in some degree, the effects of 
prudence or the want of it. By playing at choss then, we 
learn, 



DRY STYLE. 137 

T. Foresight, which looks a little into futurity, considers the 
consequences that may attend an action : for it is continually 
occurring to the player, "If I move this piece, what will be 
the advantage of my new situation ? What use can my adver- 
sary make of it to annoy me ? What other moves can I make^ 
to support it, and to defend myself from his attacks V 

II. Circumspection, which surveys the whole chess-board, or 
scene of action, the relations of the several pieces, and situa- 
tions, the dangers they are respectively exposed to, the several 
possibilities of their aiding each other, the probabilities that the 
adversary may lake this or that move, and attack this or the oth- 
er piece, and what different means can be used to avoid his 
stroke, or turn its consequences against him. 

III. Caution, not to make our moves too hastily. This 
habit is best acquired by observing strictly the laws of the 
game, such as, " If you touch a piece, you must move it some- 
where ; if you set it down, you must let it stand :" and it is 
therefore best that these rules should be observed ; as the game 
thereby becomes more the image of human life, and particular- 
ly of war ; in which, if you have incautiously put yourself in- 
to a bad and dangerous position, you cannot obtain your ene- 
my's leave to withdraw your troops, and place them more se- 
curely, but you must abide all the consequences of your rash- 
ness. 

And, lastly, we learn by chess, the habit of not being dis- 
couraged by present bad appearances in the state of our affairs, 
the habit of hoping for a favorable change, and that of perse- 
vering in the search of resources. The game is so full of events, 
there is such a variety of turns in it, the fortune of it is so sub- 
ject to sudden vicissitudes, and one so frequently, after long 
contemplation, discovers the means of extricating one's self 
from a supposed insurmountable difficulty, that one is encour- 
aged to continue the contest to the last, in hope of victory by 
our own skill, or at least of giving a stale mate, by the negli- 
gence of our adversary. And whoever considers, what in 
chess he often sees instances of, that particular pieces of suc- 
cess are apt to produce presumption, and its consequent inatten- 
tion, by which the loss may be recovered, will learn not to be 
too much discouraged by the present success of his adversary, 
nor to despair of final good fortune, upon every little check he 
receives in the pursuit of it. 

That we may, therefore, be induced more frequently to choose 
this beneficial amusement, in preference to others, which are 

12* 



138 YOUNG lady's reader. 

not attended with the same advantages, every circumstance 
which may increase the pleasure of it, should be regarded ; 
and every action or word that is unfair, disrespectful, or that in 
any way may give uneasiness, should be avoided, as contrary 
to the immediate intention of both the players, which is, to pass 
the time agreeably. 

Therefore, first, If it is agreed to play according to the strict- 
est rules, then those rules are to be exactly observed by both 
parties, and should not be insisted on for one side, while devi- 
ated from by the other — for this is not equitable. 

Secondly, If it is agreed not to observe the rules exactly, 
but one party demands indulgences, he should then be as wil- 
ling to allow them to the other. 

Thirdly, No false move should ever be made to extricate 
yourself out of a difficulty, or to gain an advantage. There 
can be no pleasure in playing with a person once detected in 
such unfair practices. 

Fourthly, If your adversary is long in playing, you ought not 
to hurry him, or to express any uneasiness at his delay. You 
should not sing, nor whistle, nor look at your watch, nor take up 
a book to read, nor make a tapping with your feet on the floor, 
or with your fingers on the table, nor do any thing that may 
disturb his attention. For all these things displease ; and they 
do not show your skill in playing, but your craftiness or your 
rudeness. 

Fifthly, You ought not to endeavor to amuse and deceive 
your adversary, by pretending to have made bad moves, and 
saying that you have now lost the game, in order to make him 
secure, and careless, and inattentive to your schemes ; for this 
is fraud and deceit, not skill in the game. 

Sixthly, You must not, when you have gained a victory, use 
any triumphing or insulting expression, nor show too much 
pleasure ; but endeavor to console your adversary, and make 
him less dissatisfied with himself, by every kind of civil expres- 
sion that may be used with truth ; such as, " You understand 
the game better than I, but you are a little inattentive ; or, you 
play too fast ; or, you had the best of the game, but something 
happened to divert your thoughts, and that turned it in my 
favor. " 

Seventhly, If you are a spectator while others play, observe 
the most perfect silence. For if you give advice, you offend 
both parties ; him against whom you give it, because it may 
cause the loss of his game; and him in whose favor you give 



PLAIN STYLE. 139 

it, because, though it be good, and he follows it, he loses the 
pleasure he might have had, if you had permitted him to think 
until it had occurred to himself. Even after a move, or moves, 
you must not, by replacing the pieces, show how it might have 
been placed better ; for that displeases, and may occasion dis- 
putes and doubts about their true situation. All talking to the 
players lessens or diverts their attention, and is therefore un- 
pleasing. Nor should you give the least hint to either party, 
by any kind of noise or motion. If you do, you are unworthy 
to be a spectator. If you have a mind to exercise or show 
your judgment, do it in playing your own game, when you have 
an opportunity, not in criticising, or meddling with, or counsel- 
ing the play of others. 

Lastly, If the game is not to be played rigorously, according 
to the rules above mentioned, then moderate your desire of vic- 
tory over your adversary, and be pleased with one over yourself. 
Snatch not eagerly at every advantage offered by his unskilful-- 
ness or inattention ; but point out to him kindly, that by such 
a move he places or leaves a piece in danger, and unsupported ; 
that by another he will put his king in a perilous situation, &c. 
By this generous civility (so opposite to the unfairness above 
forbidden) you may, indeed, happen to lose the game to your 
opponent, but you will win what is better, his esteem, his res- 
pect, and his affection ; together with the silent approbation and 
good-will of impartial spectators. 



PLAIN STYLE. 



MARRIAGE.— New York Review. 

Tt is one thing for a woman to contemplate marriage as her 
probable destiny, because that of the majority of her sex — and 
appointed by him who made them — and to aim at some fitness 
and completeness of preparation for her future responsibilities ; 
and quite another to think of getting a husband as the object 
upon which, whatever she does, may have some bearing — as 
the great end of her life, the reward of all her virtues and ac- 



140 young lady's reader. 

complishments. The latter is as odious and disagreeable as 
the former is right and proper. When a young lady shows 
that she has this false view of a subject, she gives convincing 
proof of an ill-ordered, ill-formed, vacant mind; for if she 
were occupied with the actual, as she ought to be, she would 
not be unduly absorbed in what is to her contingent and ideal. 
She discloses, too, a want of that native delicacy which should 
be the universal characteristic of her sex; for if the married 
state was God's appointment, he also appointed that she should 
be led to enter into it through the exercise of her deepest, ten- 
derest affections, and not as a matter of cold speculation. 
There is no danger that a young lady, who has been properly 
trained to the duties of life, so as to have her own mind con- 
stantly occupied, as it should be, with her own improvement, 
and the good and happiness of others, should commit this error. 



RATIONAL DOMESTIC ENJOYMENT.— Dick. 

For want of qualifications for rational conversation, a spirit 
of listlessness and indifference frequently insinuates itself into 
the intercourses of families, and between married individuals, 
which sometimes degenerates into fretfulness and impatience, 
and even into jars, contentions, and violent altercations ; in 
which case there can never exist any high degree of affection or 
domestic enjoyment. It is surely not unreasonable to suppose, 
that were the minds of persons in the married state possessed 
of a certain portion of knowledge, and endowed with a relish 
for rational investigations — not only would such disagreeable 
effects be prevented, but a variety of positive enjoyments would 
be introduced. Substantial knowledge, which leads to the 
proper exercise of the mental powers, has a tendency to melio- 
rate the temper, and to prevent those ebullitions of passion, 
which are the results of vulgarity and ignorance. By invigo- 
rating the mind, it prevents it from sinking into peevishness and 
inanity. It affords subjects for interesting conversation, and 
augments affection by the reciprocal interchanges of sentiment 
and feeling, and the mutual communication of instruction and 
entertainment. And in cases where malignant passions are 
ready to burst forth, rational arguments will have a more pow- 
erful influence in arresting their progress, in cultivated minds, 
than in those individuals in whose constitution animal feeling 
predominates, and reason has lost its ascendency. As an en- 



PLAIN STYLE. 141 

lightened mind is generally the seat of noble and liberal senti- 
ments — in those cases where the parties belong to different re- 
ligious sectaries, there is more probability of harmony and mu- 
tual forbearance being displayed, when persons take an enlarged 
view of the scenes of creation, and the revelations of the Cre- 
ator, than can be expected in the case of those whose faculties. 
are immersed in the mists of superstition and ignorance. 

How delightful an enjoyment is it, after the bustle of busi- 
ness and the labors of the day are over, — when a married cou- 
ple can sit down at each corner of the fire, and, with mutual 
relish and interest, read a volume of history or of popular phi- 
losophy, and talk of the moral government of God, the ar- 
rangements of his providence, and the wonders of the universe ! 
Such interesting conversations and exercises beget a mutual 
esteem, enliven the affections, and produce a friendship lasting 
as our existence, and which no untoward incidents can ever ef- 
fectually impair. A. christian pastor, in giving an account of 
the last illness of his beloved partner, in a late periodical work, 
when alluding to a book she had read along with him about two 
months before her decease, says, " I shall never forget the plea- 
sure with which she studied the illustrations of the Divine per- 
fections in that interesting book. Rising from the contempla- 
tion of the variety, beauty, immensity, and order of the crea- 
tion, she exulted in the assurance of having the Creator for her 
father, anticipated with great joy the vision of him in the next 
world, and calculated with unhesitating confidence, on the suffi- 
ciency of his boundless nature to engage her most intense in- 
terest, and to render her unspeakably happy for ever." It is 
well known that the late lamented Princess Charlotte and her 
consort, Prince Leopold, lived together in the greatest harmo- 
ny and affection ; and from what her biographers have stated 
respecting her education and pursuits, it appears that the mutual 
friendship of these illustrious individuals, was heightened and 
cemented by the rational conversation in which they indulged, 
and the elevated studies to which they were devoted. Her 
course of education embraced the English, classical, French, 
German, and Italian languages ; arithmetic, geography, astron- 
omy, the first six books of Euclid, algebra, mechanics, and the 
principles of optics and perspective, along with history, the 
policy of governments, and particularly the principles of the 
christian religion. She was a skilful musician, had a fine per- 
ception of the picturesque in nature, and was fond of drawing. 
She took great pleasure in strolling on the beach, in marine ex.-* 



142 young lady's reader. 

cursions, in walking in the country, in rural scenery, in con- 
versing freely with the rustic inhabitants, and in investigating 
every object that seemed worthy of her attention. She was an 
enthasiastic admirer of the grand and beautiful in nature, and 
the ocean was to her an object of peculiar interest. After her 
union with the prince, as their tastes were similar, they en- 
gaged in the same studies. Gardening, drawing, music, and ra- 
tional conversation diversified their leisure hours. They took 
great pleasure in the culture of flowers — in the classification of 
them — and in the formation, with scientific skill, of a hortus 
siccus. But the library, which was furnished with the best 
books in our language, was their favorite place of resort ; and 
their chief daily pleasure, mutual instruction. They were sel- 
dom apart either in their occupations or in their amusements; 
nor were they separated in their religious duties. '"They took 
sweet counsel together, and walked to the house of God in 
company ;" and it is also stated, on good authority, that they 
had established the worship of God in their family, which was 
regularly attended by every branch of their household. - No 
wonder, then, that they exhibited an auspicious and a delightful 
example of private and domestic virtue, of conjugal attach- 
ment, and of unobtrusive charity and benevolence. In the 
higher circles of society, as well as in the lower, it would be 
of immense importance to the interests of domestic happiness, 
that the taste of the Princess Charlotte was more closely imi- 
tated, and that the fashionable frivolity and dissipation which 
so generally prevail, were exchanged for the pursuits of knowl- 
edge, and the delights of rational and improving conversation. 
Then those family feuds, contentions, and separations, and 
those prosecutions for matrimonial infidelity, which are now so 
common, would be less frequently obtruded on public view; 
and examples of virtue, affection, and rational conduct, would 
be set before the subordinate ranks of the community, which 
might be attended with the most beneficial and permanent re- 
sults, not only to the present, but to future generations. 

In short, the possession of a large store of intellectual 
wealth, would fortify the soul in the prospect of every evil to 
which humanity is subjected, and would afford consolation and 
solace when fortune is diminished, and the greater portion of 
external comforts is withdrawn. Under the frowns of adversi- 
ty, those worldly losses and calamities which drive unthinking 
men to desperation and despair, would be borne with a becom- 
ing magnanimity; the mind having within itself the chief re- 



NEAT STYLE. 143 

sources of its happiness, and becoming almost independent of 
the world around it. For to the individual whose happiness 
chiefly depends on intellectual pleasures, retirement from general 
society and the bustle of the world, is often the state of his 
highest enjoyment. 



NEAT STYLE. 



FEMALE AUTHORSHIP,— Mad. de Stael. 

If the condition of the female world in the civil order of 
things, is very defective ; merely to alleviate their situation, 
and not to degrade their mind, is the object most desirable. 
Assiduously to call forth female sense and reason, is useful both 
to mental improvement, and the happiness of society : only 
one serious misfortune can accrue from the cultivated educa- 
tion which they may have received ; and this would be (if by 
chance any should acquire such distinguished talents,) an eager 
desire of fame: but even this chance would not be prejudicial 
to society at large, as it could affect only that small number of 
women whom nature might devote to the worst of torments — 
an importunate thirst for superiority. No sooner is a woman 
pointed out as a distinguished character, than the public is, in 
general, prejudiced against her. The vulgar can never judge 
but after certain rules, which may be adhered to without dan- 
ger. Every thing which is out of the common course of events, 
is at first displeasing to those who consider the beaten track of 
life as the protection for mediocrity: even a man of superior 
talents somewhat startles them ; but a woman of shining abili- 
ties, being a still greater phenomenon, astonishes, and conse- 
quently, incommodes them much more. Nevertheless, a dis- 
tinguished man being almost always destined to pursue some 
important career, his talents may become useful to those very 
persons, who annex but a trifling value to the charms of reflec- 
tion. A man of genius may become a man of power; and 
from this consideration, the envious and the weak pay court to 
him ; but a woman of talents can only offer them what they 
feel no interest about — new ideas or elevated sentiments ; the 



144 young lady's reader. 

sound of her praise, therefore, only fatigues them. Fame it- 
self may be even a reproach to a woman; because fame is the 
reverse of what nature intended for her. Severe virtue con- 
demns celebrity, even in what is really praise-worthy in itself, 
as being in some measure inimical to perfect modesty. Men 
of sense, astonished to find rivals amongst the fair sex, can 
neither judge them with the generosity of an adversary, nor 
with the indulgence of a protector : and in this new conflict 
they adhere neither to the laws of honor, nor to those of good 
nature. If, as the greatest misfortune that could befall her, a 
woman chanced to acquire remarkable celebrity in a time of 
political dissension, her influence would be thought boundless, 
even when she attempted not to exert any ; the actions of her 
friends would be all attributed to her: she would be hated for 
whatever she loved, and this poor defenseless object would be 
attacked before those, who are really formidable, were even 
thought of. Nothing gives greater scope to vague conjectures, 
than the uncertain existence of a woman whose name is cele- 
brated, and whose life has been obscure. If the vanity of one 
man excites derision ; if the abhorred character of another 
makes him sink under the burden of public contempt ; if a man 
of inferior talents fails of some desired success ; ail are ready 
to attribute these events to the invisible agency of female power. 
Women have no means of manifesting the truth, nor of ex- 
plaining the particulars of their life : if any calumny is spread 
concerning them, the public hears it ; but their intimate friends 
alone can judge of the truth. What authentic means can a 
woman have of proving the falsity of scandalous reports? A 
calumniated man replies by his actions to an accusing world, 
and may justly say, — 

"Let the tenor of iny life speak for me." 

But of what service is such a testimony to a woman ? Some 
private virtues ; some good deeds, scarcely known ; some sen- 
timents confined to the narrow circle in which she was destined 
to move ; some writings which may render her name celebra- 
ted in countries of which she is not an inhabitant, and at a 
time when, perhaps, she has ceased to exist. 

A man may, even in his works, refute the calumnies of 
which he is become the object : but as to women, to defend 
themselves is an additional disadvantage; to justify them- 
selves, a new alarm. They are conscious of a purity and del- 



NEAT STYLE. 145 

icacy in their nature, which the notice of the public will tar- 
nish ; sense, talents, an impassioned mind, may induce them to 
emerge from the cloud in which they ought always to be en- 
veloped ; but they never cease to recur to it with regret as their 
safest asylum. 

Women, however distinguished they may be, tremble at the 
aspect of malevolence ; and although courageous in adversity, 
enmity intimidates them : they are exalted by reflection, but 
weakness and sensibility must ever be the leading features of 
their character. The generality of those whose superior tal- 
ents have inspired them with a desire of fame, resemble Her- 
minius, clothed in a coat of mail ; the warriors perceive the 
helmet, the lance, and the dazzling plume ; they expect to 
meet with equal force ; they begin the onset with violence, and 
the first wound cuts to the heart. 

Injustice may not only destroy female happiness and peace, 
but it may detach the heart from the first object of its affec- 
tions ; who knows whether the effects produced by slander, 
may not sometimes obliterate truth from the memory? Who 
can tell whether the authors of this calumny, having already 
embittered life, may not even after death, deprive an amiable 
woman of those regrets which are universally due to her mem- 
ory? In this description, I have hitherto portrayed only the 
injustice of men towards any distinguished female: is not that 
of her own sex equally to be feared? Do they not secretly en- 
deavor to awaken the ill will of men against her ? Will they 
ever unite, in order to aid, to defend, and support her path of 
difficulty? 

Nor is this all: opinion seems to exempt men from all those 
attentions usually paid to the sex in all that concerns an indi- 
vidual, whose superior abilities are generally allowed ; towards 
such, men may be ungrateful, deceitful, and ill-designing, with- 
out being called to account by the public. " Is she not an ex- 
traordinary woman?" Every thing is comprised in these 
words : she is left to the strength of her own mind, to struggle 
as she can with her afflictions. The interest usually inspired 
by females, the power which is the safeguard of men, all fail 
her at once : she drags on her isolated existence like the Parias 
of India, amongst all those distinct classes, into none of which 
she can ever be admitted, and who consider her as fit only to live 
by herself, as an object of curiosity, perhaps of envy, although, 
in fact, deserving of the utmost commiseration. 

13 



146 young lady's reader. 



HANNAH MORE.— Roberts. 



There is a greatness which owes its effect in part to the sac- 
rifice of symmetry ; genius is aggrandized by its eccentricities ; 
learning claims many privileges for itself, and wit often ac- 
knowledges none in others ; the details of duties and reciproci- 
ties are not seldom trampled upon by those to whom the world's 
flattery concedes the charter of' despising ordinary things ; but 
Hannah More, caressed by princes and nobles, the delight of 
intellectual society, the center round which so many luminaries 
revolved, having her name echoed from shore to shore through 
the civilized world, was yet a plain, home-bred, practical, and 
true-hearted woman ; who managed so to live through a life of 
unusual length, that while one half of her contemporaries were 
drawing largely from her stores of instruction and entertain- 
ment, the other half knew her only by the solace imparted by 
her labors of love. While she was employed in the daily office 
of cherishing virtue, advocating merit, animating diligence, and 
clearing the road to happiness, she stood at the gate of mercy, 
an humble supplicant for grace and forgiveness, and rested the 
success of all her endeavors on their conformity to the will of 
heaven. 

She was a person to live with, to converse with, and to pray 
with. Her powers were capable of dilating or contracting their 
dimensions as occasion required. Every one found it easy to 
deal with her in a commerce of benevolence. Her genius in- 
vited a near approach. It was great and commanding, but it 
was lovely and kind. Genius, in general, requires to be placed 
at a certain distance to produce its effect. The equilibrium of 
the mind is often disturbed by it, — its stability shaken, and its 
moral texture dissolved ; and often out of this elementary dis- 
order, forms and combinations arise which the mastery of ge- 
nius molds and disposes at will. Tt claims our homage, and 
visits as a conqueror, to whom belongs the tribute of suit and 
service. But to domicile and diet with genius, is for the most 
part an unenviable lot. Its hearth and home are not usually 
the scene of comfort. In Mrs. More the colors of character 
were so blended, that all was consistency, and quiet, and pleas- 
antness around her. Her wit was entirely subordinate to her 
good-nature, and her great qualities did homage to her little 
graces. Her companions were sheltered from her brilliance by 
the shade of her humility. 



NEAT STYLE. 147 

Her manners were unostentatious and unconstrained : and 
although she could not but be sensible that she was always, in 
all companies, a principal object of attention, this conscious- 
ness produced in her neither reserve nor effort. She had the 
art of saying and communicating much, without seeming to en- 
gross a larger share of the conversation than others ; and as she 
could afford better than most to throw away her opportunities 
of excelling, it was one of the exercises of her skill in which 
she took most pleasure, to draw forth the capabilities of retiring 
merit, to give confidence to the timorous, ease to the embar- 
rassed, and its full credit to common sense. It was the pre- 
rogative of her superiority to maintain the fundamental rights 
of social equality, by the equal distribution of her kind atten- 
tions. 

Her friends were often astonished at the candor and good hu- 
mor with which she listened to criticisms on her works. What 
was accomplished with so little labor, was never so fondly 
eherished by her as to become a subject of fretful anxiety : 
those who pointed out defects, or repetitions, or redundances in 
her compositions, were always considered by her as giving 
proof of their kind feelings towards her. And as to those who 
treated her with severity, she was too conscious of the careless 
rapidity with which she generally worked, to be offended at 
that which she had taken so little pains to avert, or to be wound- 
ed by the sharp animadversions which her own salutary cen- 
sures naturally provoked. It is true that the homage of the 
world attended her throughout her life, with little interruption, 
but then it is equally true that homage is not the nurse of con- 
tentedness, nor fame and success the usual preservatives of a 
patient spirit and a gentle temper. 

No exemptions or immunities of genius were claimed by her. 
In her dress she was very neat and decorous, but very plain 
and frugal ; a great enemy to singularity and artifice, but espe- 
cially to the artifice of seeming to despise art, as far as it was 
called for by the infirmities of our condition and the duty of 
reciprocal respect. She was, however, so little taken with the 
tinsel of life and studious decoration, that what she often said 
of herself has been confirmed by the testimony of those who 
knew her best and longest, that she never wore a jewel, or trin- 
ket, or any adjunct to her dress, of the merely ornamental kind, 
in her whole life, though much of that life was spent in the soci- 
ety of the great and splendid. 



148 young lady's reader. 

A very distinguishing part of her character was her " con- 
sideration," a word not yet perhaps of abstract and special 
force enough to designate a particular virtue, but to which Mrs. 
More had attached a sort of technical meaning, by declaring a 
half-intention of writing a treatise upon what she called " the 
law of consideration." Taking it, however, in her own sense, 
as expressing an anxiety to carry one's self in one's daily in- 
tercourse, especially with inferiors, and in the common matters 
of life, so as to be the author of as little unnecessary uneasiness, 
trouble, or inconvenience as possible, in any supposed case, she 
may be said to have practised it herself to perfection. She 
would suffer considerable privations, rather than allow her 
wants to harrass others, and would often express a dread of ap- 
pearing to her servants to be regardless of the trouble she was 
giving them. She carried, indeed, this little morality to a re- 
markable extent. She never rang a bell without asking her- 
self why, and when doubtful whether she had rung or not, 
would wait a considerable time, to avoid the suspicion of im- 
patience. 

Her thoughts were always on the business before her, nor 
was any thing too small for her attention, if it affected the 
feelings, or comfort, or interests of the meanest about her. 
She had no aberrations or fits of absence, to require the apolo- 
gy of wit, or to favor its effect on weak judgments. She des- 
pised all shapes of affectation ; but the affectation of absence 
of mind, as indicating abstraction of thought, she considered 
as the lowest of those little cheats which we are hourly passing 
upon each other. 

A cultivated relish for natural scenery was one of her distinc- 
tions, and so great was her delight in the disposition of her 
garden and grounds, that she would sometimes say that Provi- 
dence had consulted her good by disabling her during the great- 
est part of the year from exposing herself to the air, as there 
was danger, had it been otherwise, of her allowing this strong 
propensity to absorb too large a portion of her time. Akin to 
this innocent relish, was the gayety with which she entered in- 
to the happiness of young children, who were seldom introduced 
to her without receiving some advice from her, conveyed in 
so pleasing a form as to engage their attention and impress 
their memories. 

It was always, however, the foible of her mind to lean too 
much towards indulgence, the predominance of which propen- 
sity was sometimes productive of consequences injurious to her 



NEAT STYLE. 149 

quiet, and laid her open to much disappointment from ingrati- 
tude. Her laxity in this respect was not, however, accompa- 
nied by any disregard of order and regularity. When in health 
she was punctiliously exact in the economy of her household ; 
in observing rules, and times, and seasons ; and more especial- 
ly in the dispensation of her charities, and the discharge of all 
her pecuniary obligations. 

She composed with remarkable rapidity, seldom reforming 
or retouching her sentences ; and the same ability and habh> 
appeared in all her transactions, small or great ; her prompti- 
tude in business being stimulated by her anxiety to save others 
from inconvenience or disappointment. Similar motives indu- 
ced her to arrange her papers and accounts with minute exact- 
ness. Common sense and business-like habits prevented the 
balance of her mind from being ever disturbed by her exercise 
of thought, or excursions into the regions of taste or imagination. 
The energy of her mind, in carrying into execution any pur- 
pose which had been adopted after sufficient consideration, was 
very remarkable. In conformity with this pare of her charac- 
ter, her plan was, in any new resolution which involved the ex- 
ercise of self-denial, to contend with the most difficult part of 
the undertaking first, after which she used to say she found the 
remaining sacrifices comparatively easy to be submitted to. 
On this principle, having resolved to desist from going to the 
theater, about the time her play of " Percy" was revived, she 
determined to make that the immediate occasion for carrying 
her new resolution into practice. Mrs. Siddons was then at 
the height of her glory, and was to act the part of the heroine 
of the tragedy, a character which she was said to exhibit with 
remarkable success ; and Mrs. Hannah More was in the midst 
of a brilliant society of friends and admirers, who all attended 
the representation ; but here she was determined to make her 
first stand against this particular temptation, and to break the 
spell of the enchantment while standing in the center of the 
magic circle. 

Another anecdote will show the same principle brought into 
exercise on a very different occasion. As her limited income 
began to be sensibly diminished at one time, by her traveling 
expenses, she determined to perform her journeys in stage- 
coaches ; and in order to overcome at once every obstacle that 
pride might interpose, she resolved to pay a visit to a nobleman, 
on which she was about to set out, in one of these vehicles ; 
which, as there was a public road through the park, set her 

13* 



150 young lady's reader. 

down at the door of the mansion. She has more than once 
described her conflicting sensations when his lordship, pro- 
ceeding through a line of servants in rich liveries, came to 
hand her out of her conveyance, — a conveyance at that time 
much less used than at present by persons of high respecta- 
bilit)^. Thus it was the policy of this able tactician to com- 
mence her operations by a decisive blow, whereby the main 
strength of the opposing force was at once broken and dis- 
persed, and her victory made easy and secure. 

Those who lived most with her pronounced her to be a per- 
son most easy to be lived with. None of those little petty 
peevishnesses with Avhich some are so fond of spicing their 
intercourse and their friendships, were played off in her com- 
merce with her friends or dependants. As she was scrupulous 
of giving offense, so she suspected none of intending it to- 
wards herself. She lived in an immunity from quarrels, and 
above the need of explanation. Her passage through life was 
that of a vessel on the bosom of a lake, with its canvass spread 
to catch the breeze, that whispered benisons as it bore it along 
to its quiet haven. 



TRUTH.— Sprague. 

See to it that your intercourse with the world is never char- 
acterized by the spirit of exaggeration. It would seem that, 
in many minds, there is a constitutional tendency to this ; — a 
disposition to deal in the marvelous at the expense of sober 
verity. And it must be acknowledged that some professors of 
religion are unguarded in this respect, to a degree which sub- 
jects even their christian character to suspicion. They may 
not indeed utter things in which there is no semblance of reali- 
ty ; but their imagination throws around the sober fact so much 
imposing drapery, that the impression which is communicated 
is palpably false ; and besides, there is always reason to fear, 
from the nature of habit, that the man who indulges a passion 
for exaggeration, will, from making a large story out of scanty 
materials, gradually acquire the power of conjuring up the ma- 
terials themselves. Oh, how cutting it is to hear worldly men 
say of a professor of religion the moment his back is turned — 
" that man's statements are to be received with caution. What 
he says may be true ; but there is nothing in his character to 
convey any assurance of it." 



ELEGANT STYLE. 151 

Beware then of the very beginning of such a habit. Be 
sure that all your statements are conformed to the literal verity. 
Remember, that if you are professedly engaged in narrating 
facts, you cannot call imagination to your aid but at the expense 
of truth. If you speak on subjects concerning which you are 
in doubt, see that the impression you convey is exactly con- 
formed to your honest views ; and that you do not appear to be 
confident when you are really doubtful. In this way you will 
leave upon the world a delightful impression of that godly sim- 
plicity which the gospel enjoins ; but, by a different course, 
you will certainly subject yourself to the imputation of being 
deficient in one of the cardinal moral virtues. 



ELEGANT STYLE. 



THE LANDING OF COLUMBUS.— Irving. 

The morning dawned — he saw before him a level and beau- 
tiful island, several leagues in extent, of great freshness and 
verdure, and covered with trees like a continual orchard. 
Though every thing appeared in the wild luxuriance of un- 
tamed nature, yet the island was evidently populous, for the 
inhabitants were seen issuing from the woods, and running 
from all parts to the shore, where they stood gazing at the ships. 
They were all perfectly naked, and from their attitudes and 
gestures appeared to be lost in astonishment. Columbus made 
signal for the ships to cast anchor, and the boats to be manned 
and armed. He entered his own boat, richly attired in scarlet, 
and bearing the royal standard ; whilst Martin Alonzo Pinzon, 
and Vincent Yanez, his brother, put off in company in their 
boats, each bearing the banner of the enterprise emblazoned 
with a green cross, having on each side the letters F. and Y. 
surmounted by crowns, the initials of the Castilian monarchs, 
Fernando and Ysabel. 

As they approached the shores, they were refreshed by the 
sight of the ample forests, which in those climates have extra- 
ordinary beauty of vegetation. They beheld fruits of tempting 
hue, but unknown kind, growing among the trees which over- 
hung the shores. The purity and suavity of the atmosphere, 



152 young lady's reader. 

the crystal transparency of the seas which bathe these islands, 
give them a wonderful beauty, and must have had their effect 
upon the susceptible feelings of Columbus. No sooner did he 
land, than he threw himself upon his knees, kissed the earth, 
and returned thanks to God with tears of joy. His example 
was followed by the rest, whose hearts indeed overflowed with 
the same feelings of gratitude. Columbus then rising, drew 
his sword, displayed the royal standard, and assembling round 
him the two captains, with Rcdrigo de Escobido, notary of the 
armament, Rodrigo Sanchez, and the rest who had landed, he 
took solemn possession in the name of the Castilian sovereigns, 
giving the island the name of San Salvador. Having complied 
with the requisite forms and ceremonies, he now called upon 
all present to take the oath of obedience to him, as admiral and 
viceroy, representing the persons of the sovereigns. 

The feelings of the crew now burst forth in the most extrav- 
agant transports. They had recently considered themselves 
devoted men, hurrying forward to destruction ; they now looked 
upon themselves as favorites of fortune, and gave themselves 
up to the most unbounded joy. They thronged around the 
admiral in their overflowing zeal. Some embraced him, others 
kissed his hands. Those who had been most mutinous and 
turbulent during the voyage, were now most devoted and enthu- 
siastic. Some begged favors of him, as of a man who had already 
wealth and honors in his gift. Many abject spirits, who had 
outraged him by their insolence, now crouched as it were at 
his feet, begging pardon for all the trouble they had caused him, 
and offering for the future the blindest obedience to his com- 
mands. 

The natives of the island, when, at the dawn of day, they 
had beheld the ships, with their sails set, hovering on their 
coast, had supposed them some monsters which had issued 
from the deep during the night. They had crowded to the 
beach, and watched their movements with awful anxiety. Their 
veering about, apparently without effort ; the shifting and furl- 
ing of their sails, resembling huge wings, filled them with as- 
tonishment. When they beheld the boats approach the shore, 
and a number of strange beings clad in glittering steel, or rai- 
ment of various colors, landing upon the beach, they fled in 
affright to their woods. Finding, however, that there was no 
attempt to pursue nor molest them, they gradually recovered 
from their terror, and approached the Spaniards with great 
awe, frequently prostrating themselves on the earth, and making 



ELEGANT STYLE. 153 

signs of adoration. During the ceremonies of taking posses- 
sion, they remained gazing in timid admiration at the complex- 
ion, the beards, the shining armor, and splendid dresses of the 
Spaniards. The admiral particularly attracted their attention, 
from his commanding height, his air of authority, his dress of 
scarlet, and the deference which was paid him by his compan- 
ions ; all which pointed him out to be the commander. When 
they had still further recovered from their fears, they approached 
the Spaniards, touched their beards, and examined their hands 
and faces, admiring their whiteness. Columbus, pleased with 
their simplicity, their gentleness, and the confidence they re- 
posed in beings who must have appeared to them so strange 
and formidable, suffered their scrutiny with perfect acquiescence. 
The wondering savages were won by this benignity ; they 
now supposed that the ships had sailed out of the crystal fir- 
mament which bounded their horizon, or that they had descended 
from above on their ample wings, and that these marvelous 
beings were inhabitants of the skies. 



TPIE PAST AND PRESENT.— Coleridge. 

There are two errors into which we easily slip when think- 
ing of past times. One lies in forgetting in the excellence of 
what remains, the large overbalance of worthlessness that has 
been swept away. Ranging over the wide tracts of antiquity, 
the situation of the mind may be likened to that of a traveler 
in some unpeopled part of America, who is attracted to the 
burial place of one of the primitive inhabitants. It is con- 
spicuous upon an eminence, " a mount upon a mount !" He 
digs into it, and finds that it contains the bones of a man of 
mighty stature ; and he is tempted to give way to a belief, that 
as there were giants in those days, so that all men were giants. 
But a second and wiser thought may suggest to him, that this 
tomb would never have forced itself upon his notice, if it had 
not contained a body that was distinguished from others, that of 
a man who had been selected as a chieftain or ruler for the very 
reason that he surpassed the rest of his tribe in stature, and 
who now lies thus conspicuously inhumed upon the mountain 
top, while the bones of* his followers are laid unobtrusively 
together in their burrows upon the plain below. The second 
habitual error is, that in this comparison of ages we divide time 



154 young lady's reader. 

merely into past and present, and place these into the balance 
to be weighed against each other, not considering that the 
present is in our estimation not more than a period of thirty- 
years, or half a century at most, and that the past is a mighty 
accumulation of many such periods, perhaps the whole of re- 
corded time, or at least the whole of that portion of it in which 
our own country has been distinguished. We may illustrate 
this by the familiar use of the words Ancient and Modern, 
when applied to poetry — what can be more inconsiderate or 
unjust than to compare a few existing writers with the whole 
succession of their progenitors ? The delusion, from the mo- 
ment that our thoughts are directed to it, seems too gross to 
deserve mention ; yet men will talk for hours upon poetry, 
balancing against each other the words Ancient and Modern, 
and be unconscious that they have fallen into it. 



THE THREE ORDERS OF GREATNESS.— Changing. 

There are different orders of greatness. Among these the 
first rank is unquestionably due to moral greatness, or magna- 
nimity ; to that sublime energy, by which the soul, smitten 
with the love of virtue, binds itself indissolubly, for life and 
for death, to truth and duty ; espouses as its own the interests 
of human nature ; scorns all meanness and defies all peril ; 
hears in its own conscience a voice louder than threatenings 
and thunders ; withstands all the powers of the universe, which 
would sever it from the cause of freedom and religion ; reposes 
an unfaltering trust in God in the darkest hour, and is ever 
' ready to be offered up' on the altar of its country or of man- 
kind. Of this moral greatness, which throws all other forms 
of greatness into obscurity, we see not a trace in Napoleon. 
Though clothed with the power of a god, the thought of con- 
secrating himself to the introduction of a new and higher era, 
to the exaltation of the character and condition of his race, 
seems never to have dawned on his mind. The spirit of dis- 
interestedness and self-sacrifice seems not to have waged a 
moment's war with self-will and ambition. His ruling passions, 
indeed, were singularly at variance with magnanimity. Moral 
greatness has too much simplicity, is too unostentatious, too 
self-subsistent, and enters into others' interests with too much 
heartiness, to live an hour for what Napoleon always lived, to 
make itself the theme, and gaze, and wonder of a dazzled world. 



ELEGANT STYLE. 155 

Next to moral, comes intellectual greatness, or genius in the 
highest sense of that word ; and by this, we mean that sublime 
capacity of thought, through which the soul, smitten with the 
love of the true and the beautiful, essays to comprehend the 
universe, soars into the heavens, penetrates the earth, pene- 
trates itself, questions the past, anticipates the future, traces 
out the general and all-comprehending laws of nature, binds 
together by innumerable affinities and relations all the objects* 
of its knowledge, rises from the finite and transient to the infi- 
nite and the everlasting, frames to itself from its own fulness 
lovelier and sublimer forms than it beholds, discerns the har- 
monies between the world within and the world without us, and 
finds in every region of the universe types and interpreters of 
its own deep mysteries and glorious inspirations. This is the 
greatness which belongs to philosophers, and to the masterspirits 
in poetry and the fine arts. — Next comes the greatness of ac- 
tion ; and by this we mean the sublime power of conceiving 
bold and extensive plans ; of constructing and bringing to bear 
on a mighty object a complicated machinery of means, ener- 
gies, and arrangements, and of accomplishing great outward 
effects. To this head belongs the greatness of Bonaparte, and 
that he possessed it we need not prove, and none will be hardy 
enough to deny. A man, who raised himself from obscurity 
to a throne, who changed the face of the world, who made him- 
self felt through powerful and civilized nations, who sent the 
terror of his name across seas and oceans, whose will was 
pronounced and feared as destiny, whose donatives were crowns, 
whose antechamber was thronged by submissive princes, who 
broke down the awful barrier of the Alps and made them a 
highway, and whose fame was spread beyond the boundaries 
of civilization to the steppes of the Cossack, and the deserts of 
the Arab ; a man, who has left this record of himself in his- 
tory, has taken out of our hands the question, whether he shall 
be called great. All must concede to him a sublime power of 
action, an energy equal to great effects. 



MILTON'S PARADISE.— Channing. 

Paradise and its inhabitants are in sweet accordance, and 
together form a scene of tranquil bliss, which calms and soothes, 
whilst it delights the imagination. Adam and Eve, just molded 
by the hand, and quickened by the breath of God, reflect in 



156 young lady's reader. 

their countenances and forms, as well as minds, the intelli- 
gence, benignity, and happiness of their author. Their new 
existence has the freshness and peacefulness of the dewy 
morning. Their souls, unsated and untainted, find an innocent 
joy in the youthful creation, which spreads and smiles around 
them. Their mutual love is deep, for it is the love of young, 
unworn, unexhausted hearts, which meet in each other the only 
human objects on whom to pour forth their fulness of affection ; 
and still it is serene, for it is the love of happy beings, who 
know not suffering even by name, whose innocence excludes 
not only the tumults but the thought of jealousy and shame, 
who, ' imparadised in one another's arms,' scarce dream of 
futurity, so blessed is their present being. We will not say 
that we envy our first parents ; for we feel that there may be 
higher happiness than theirs, a happiness won through struggle 
with inward and outward foes, the happiness of power and 
moral victory, the happiness of disinterested sacrifices and 
wide-spread love, the happiness of boundless hope, and of 
' thoughts which wander through eternity. ' Still there are 
times, when the spirit, oppressed with pain, worn with toil, 
tired of tumult, sick at the sight of guilt, wounded in its love, 
baffled in its hope, and trembling in its faith, almost longs for 
the ' wings of a dove, that it might fly away' and take refuge 
amidst the ' shady bowers,' the ' vernal airs,' the ' roses without 
thorns,' the quiet, the beauty, the loveliness of Eden. It is the 
contrast of this deep peace of Paradise with the storms of life, 
which gives to the fourth and fifth books of this poem a charm 
so irresistible, that not a few would sooner relinqush the two 
first books, with all their sublimity, than part with these. It 
has sometimes been said, that the English language has no 
good pastoral poetry. We would ask, in what age or country 
has the pastoral reed breathed such sweet strains, as are borne 
to us on 'the odoriferous wings of gentle gales' from Milton's 
Paradise 1 



THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.— Hall. 

It is no reflection on this amiable princess to suppose, that 
in her early dawn, with the dew of her youth so fresh upon her, 
she anticipated a long series of years, and expected to be led 
through successive scenes of enchantment, rising above each 
other in fascination and beauty. It is natural to suppose she 



ELEGANT STYLE. 157 

identified herself with this great nation which she was born to 
govern ; and that while she contemplated its pre-eminent lustre 
in arts and in arms, its commerce encircling the globe, its colo- 
nies diffused through both hemispheres, and the beneficial effects 
of its institutions extending to the whole earth, she considered 
them as so many component parts of her grandeur. Her heart, 
we may well conceive, would often be ruffled with emotions of 
trembling ecstasy when she reflected, that it was her province 
to live entirely for others, to compose the felicity of a great 
people, to move in a sphere which would afford scope for the 
exercise of philanthropy the most enlarged, of wisdom the most 
enlightened ; and that, while others are doomed to pass through 
the world in obscurity, she was to supply the materials of his- 
tory, and to impart that impulse to society which was to decide 
the destiny of future generations. Fired with the ambition of 
equaling or surpassing the most distinguished of her predeces- 
sors, she probably did not despair of reviving the remembrance 
of the brightest parts of their story, and of once more attaching 
the epoch of British glory to the annals of a female reign. It 
is needless to add that the nation went with her, and probably 
outstripped her in these delightful anticipations. We fondly 
hoped that a life so inestimable would be protracted to a distant 
period, and that, after diffusing the blessings of a just and en- 
lightened administration, and being surrounded by a numerous 
progeny, she would gradually, in a good old age, sink under 
the horizon, amid the embraces of her family and the benedic- 
tions of her country. But alas ! these delightful visions are 
fled, and what do we behold in their room but the funeral pall 
and shroud, a palace in mourning, a nation in tears, and the 
shadow of death settled over both like a cloud ! the un- 
speakable vanity of human hopes ! the incurable blindness of 
man to futurity ! ever doomed to grasp at shadows, to seize with 
avidity what turns to dust and ashes in his hands, to sow the 
wind and reap the whirlwind. 



MILTON.— Wotjk, 



There lived a divine old man, whose everlasting remains we 

have all admired, whose memory is the pride of England and 

of nature. His youth was distinguished by a happier lot than, 

perhaps, genius has often enjoyed at the commencement of its, 

14 



158 young lady's reader. 

career : he was enabled, by the liberality of fortune, to dedicate 
his soul to the cultivation of those classical accomplishments 
in which almost his infancy delighted : he had attracted admi- 
ration at the period when it is most exquisitely felt : he stood 
forth the literary and political champion of republican Eng- 
land ; — and Europe acknowledged him the conqueror. But 
the storm arose; his fortune sunk with the republic which he 
had defended ; the name which future ages have consecrated 
was forgotten ; and neglect was embittered by remembered 
celebrity. Age was advancing — health was retreating — nature 
hid her face from him for ever, for never more to him returned 

" Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine." 

What was the refuge of the deserted veteran from penury — 
from neglect — from infamy — from darkness 1 Not in a queru- 
lous and peevish despondency : not in an unmanly recantation 
of principles — erroneous, but unchanged ; not in the tremen- 
dous renunciation of what heaven has given, and heaven 
alone should take away ; — but he turned from a distracted 
country and a voluptuous court, — he turned from triumphant 
enemies and inefficient friends, — he turned from a world that to 
him was a universal blank, to the muse that sits among the 
cherubim, — and she caught him into heaven ! — The clouds that 
obscured his vision upon earth instantaneously vanished before 
the blaze of celestial effulgence, and his eyes opened at once 
upon all the glories and terrors of the Almighty, — the seats of 
eternal beatitude and bottomless perdition. What, though to 
look upon the face of this earth was still denied — what was it 
to him, that one of the outcast atoms of creation was concealed 
from his view — when the Deity permitted the muse to unlock 
his mysteries, and disclose to the poet the recesses of the uni- 
verse — when she bade his soul expand into its immensity, and 
enjoy as well its horrors as its magnificence — what was it to 
him that he had " fallen upon evil days and evil tongues," for 
the muse could transplant his spirit into the bowers of Eden, 
where the frown of fortune was disregarded, and the weight of 
incumbent infirmity forgotten in the smile that beamed on pri- 
meval innocence, and the tear that was consecrated to man's 
first disobedience. 



ELEGANT STYLE. 159 



THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEAD.— Binney. 

If the reputation of the living were the only source from 
which the honor of our race is derived, the death of an eminent 
man would be a subject of immitigable grief. It is the lot of 
few to attain great distinction, before death has placed them 
above the distorting medium through which men are seen by 
their contemporaries. It is the lot of still fewer to attain it by 
qualities which exalt the character of our species. Envy de- 
nies the capacity of some, slander stigmatizes the principles 
of others, fashion gives an occasional currency to false preten- 
sions, and the men by whom the age is hereafter to be known, 
are often too much in advance of it to be discernible by the 
common eye. All these causes combine to reduce the stock 
of living reputation as much below the real merits of the age, 
as it is below the proper dignity of man ; and he who should 
wish to elevate his spirit by great examples of wisdom, of 
genius, and of patriotism, if he could not derive them from the 
illustrious dead, would have better reason than the son of Philip 
to weep at the limits which confined him. To part with the 
great and good from a world which thus wants them, and not to 
receive thereafter the refreshing influence of their purified and 
exalted fame, would be to make death almost the master of our 
virtue, as he appears to be of our perishable bodies. 

The living and the dead are, however, but one family, and 
the moral and intellectual affluence of those who have gone 
before, remains to enrich their posterity. The great fountain 
of human character lies beyond the confines of life, where the 
passions cannot invade it. It is in that region, that among 
innumerable proofs of man's nothingness, are preserved the 
records of his immortal descent and destiny. It is there the 
spirits of all ages, after their sun is set, are gathered into one 
firmament, to shed their unquenchable light upon us. It is in 
the great assembly of the dead, that the philosopher and the 
patriot, who have passed from life, complete their benefaction 
to mankind, by becoming imperishible examples of virtue. 

Beyond the circle of those private affections which cannot 
choose but shrink from the inroads of death, there is no grief 
then for the departure of the eminently good and wise. No 
tears but those of gratitude should fall into the graves of such 
as are gathered in honor to their forefathers. By their now 
unenvied virtues and talents, they have become a new posses- 



160 young lady's reader. 

sion to their posterity, and when we commemorate them, and 
pay the debt which is their due, we increase and confirm our 
own inheritance. 



FLOWERY STYLE. 



SACRED LITERATURE.— Grimke'. 

The traveler who stands at the well-spring of some mighty 
river, illustrious alike in the verse of the poet, and the roll of 
the historian, looks in imagination, down its " monarchy of 
waters," to contemplate all the variety of its fortunes, amid the 
wilderness of nature, and the habitations of man. He beholds 
in its course, the humble cottage of the peasant, and the splen- 
did palace of opulence and rank ; the rural scenery of field, 
and orchard, and meadow, or the garden of fashion, glittering 
with its " wilderness of lamps ;" the hamlet or the village, 
" when unadorned adorned the most," and the ancient city, en- 
riched by the treasures of every clime, embelished with the 
creations of every art, and glorious in its power, magnificence, 
and wealth. The astronomer lifts his eye from the narrow 
boundary of the visible horizon, and the diminutive forms 
which decorate the surface of the earth, to the heavens above, 
and gazes with the intelligence of philosophy, and the enthusi- 
asm of poetry, on the serenity of its azure depths, on its wan- 
dering orbs, on the bickering flame of its comets, or the pure 
light of its host of stars. His soul expands and rises in its 
conceptions of the grandeur, wisdom, benevolence of God, and 
worships, in aspirations of praise and gratitude, at the mercy- 
seat of the invisible Creator. As he contemplates the mira- 
cles of worlds innumerable, and of a boundless universe, his 
thoughts are exalted and purified, and he is filled with amaze- 
ment, at the marvelous system of the visible universe, and with 
joy and gratitude at the eternal destiny, and still more glorious 
attributes of the human soul. 

The traveler, when he looks on the river, arrayed in the sub- 
lime, the wonderful, the fair, in the works of nature and of art, 
beholds the image of classic literature. The astronomer who 



FLOWERY STVLE. 161 

views the heavens with the science which comprehends, and the 
taste which admires, contemplates in that glorious personifica- 
tion of the unseen God, the sublimity, beauty, and variety of sa- 
cred literature. Classic literature stands, like the statue of 
Prometheus, graceful in its beauty, majestic in its power. 
But sacred literature is the ever-living fire, that descends from 
heaven, instinct with life, immortal, universal. That is the 
mausoleum of departed nations, splendid yet desolate; and 
bearing an inscription written indeed, " in the kingly language 
of the mighty dead." This is none other than the house of 
God, this is the gate of heaven; its record is the book of life, 
spotless and eternal ; its penmen are prophets, apostles, and 
martyrs ; its ministering servants are cherubim and seraphim, 
the angel and the arch-angel. 



THE POETICAL ASPECT OF VISIBLE NATURE.— Montgom- 
ery. 

" Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven!" 

This is one of those rapturous apostrophes of the author of 
Childe Harold, which occasionally burst, in fine phrensy, from 
the impassioned poet, like oracles from the lips of the Pytho- 
ness ; unconsciously uttered, and seeming, from their very bold- 
ness and obscurity, to convey more meaning than intelligible 
words could express. Had the noble bard been asked what 
he himself intended by this extraordinary phrase, — to make it 
clear, might have cost him more labor in vain, than he was wont 
to expend, who seldom did labor in vain, (though he often did 
worse,) for he generally achieved what he attempted, whether 
it were good or evil. Without inquiring what prompted the 
idea to that wayward mind, which, in the context, is about con- 
sulting them as the rulers of human destinies, — there is a sense 
in which, I think, " the stars" may truly and intelligibly be 
styled " the poetry of heaven." How ? — Not, certainly, on 
account of their visible splendor ; for the gas-lamps of a single 
street of this metropolis outshine the whole hemisphere on the 
clearest winter-evening: nor on account of their beautiful con- 
figurations ; for the devices chalked on the floor of a fashiona- 
ble ball-room, to the mere animal eye, would be more" captiva- 
ting. It is from causes having affinity to mind, not matter, — to 
truth, not semblance, — that the stars may indeed be called the 
poetry of heaven. Among these may be mentioned the time 

14* 



162 young lady's reader. 

of their appearance, in the solitude, silence, and darkness of 
night ; their motion, with one consent, from east to west, each 
kept in its place ; so slow as not to be perceptible, except by 
comparison, at intervals, yet accomplishing an annual revolu- 
tion of the heavens, by points actually gained on their apparent 
nocturnal journeys : again, by our knowledge that they have 
had existence from the foundation of the world, when " the 
morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted 
for joy ;" by their use in the firmament, — being placed there 
"for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and for years" to 
man. "Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven?" said the 
Lord, speaking out of the whirlwind to Job : " Canst thou 
bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of 
Orion ? Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season ? Or 
canst thou guide Arcturus with his sons ?" — Here shines out, 
indeed, " the poetry of heaven ;" and here we may hearken to 
the true " music of the spheres :" 

" For though no real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found, 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And uttter forth a glorious voice ; 
For ever singing, as they shine, 
'The hand that made us is divine.'" 

But in a peculiar, and, to myself at least, an intensely inter- 
esting view, the stars are "the poetry of heaven." In com- 
mon with the sun and moon, they are the only unchanging and 
actual objects which all eyes that were ever opened to the light, 
and lifted to the sjty, have seen precisely as we see them, and 
precisely as they shall be seen by posterity to the end of time. 
Rivers stray from their channels ; mountains are shattered by 
earthquakes, undermined by waters, or worn by the stress of 
elements ; forests disappear, and cities rise upon their place ; 
cities, again, are tumbled into ruins ; all the works of man per- 
ish like their framer ; and on those of nature herself, through- 
out the habitable globe, is written Mutability. The entire as- 
pect of the earth, whether waste or cultivated, peopled or solita- 
ry, is perpetually undergoing transformation. Shakspeare says, 
" No man ever bathed twice in the same river." It may as 
truly be said, though the process is slower, that no two gener- 
ations dwelling successively on one spot, however marked its 
general features might be, ever beheld the same local objects, 
in the same color, shape, and character. The heavenly bodies 
alone appear to us the identical luminaries, in size, lustre, move- 



FLOWERY STYLE. 163 

ment, and relative position, which they appeared to Adam and 
Eve in paradise, when, 

" at their shady lodge arrived, both stood, 
Both turned, and under open sky adored 
The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven. 
Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, 
And starry pole." 

They appear to us the same as they did to Noah and his family, 
when they descended from the ark into the silence of an un- 
peopled world ; and as they did to the builders of Babel, when 
the latter projected a tower whose top should reach heaven. 
They appear to us in the same battle-array as they were seen 
by Deborah and Barak, when " the stars in their courses fought 
against Sisera ;" in the same sparkling constellations as they 
were seen by the Psalmist, compelling him to exclaim, " When 
I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and 
the stars which thou hast ordained, Lord ! what is man that 
thou art mindful of him, or the son of man that thou visitest 
him?" Once more, — and, Oh! how touching is the thought! 
— the stars, the unchanging stars, appear to us with the same 
placid magnificence as they were seen by the Redeemer of the 
world, when, " having sent the multitude away, he went up into 
a mountain apart to pray ; and when evening was come he was 
there alone," and " continued all night in prayer to God." 

" Cold mountains and the midnight air 
Witnessed the fervor of his prayer; 
The desert his temptations knew, 
His conflict and his victory too." 

The stars, then, have been the points where all that ever 
lived have met ; the great, the small, the evil, and the good ; 
the prince, the warrior, statesman, sage ; the high, the low, the 
rich, the poor ; the bond and the free ; Jew, Greek, Scythian, 
and Barbarian : every man that has looked up from the earth 
to the firmament, has met every other man among the stars, for 
all have seen them alike, which can be said of no other images 
in the visible universe ! Hence, by a sympathy neither affect- 
ed nor overstrained, we can at pleasure bring our spirits into 
nearer contact with any being that has existed, illustrious or ob- 
scure, in any age or country, by fixing our eyes — to name no 
other — on the evening or the morning star, which that individ- 
ual must have beheld a hundred and a hundred times, 

"In that same place of heaven where now it shines," 



164 YOUNG LADY'S READER. 

and with the very aspect which the beautiful planet wears to 
us, and with which it will continue to smile over the couch of 
dying, or the cradle of reviving day. 



THE GRAPES OF GOMORRAH— Philip. 

Both young men and maidens venerated the aged Sheshbaz- 
zar, and vied with each other in honoring his grey hairs as " a 
crown of glory." He was a second conscience to all the youth 
of Beersheba, who studied to maintain a good conscience to- 
wards God or man. When the young men looked upon the 
daughters of the Canaanites, and thought of allying themselves 
with " aliens from the commonwealth of Israel," they remem- 
bered that Sheshbazzar would not bless the forbidden union ; 
and turned their attention to the daughters of the covenant. 
When the maidens of Beersheba were fascinated by the garb 
and bearing of the sons of Belial, they felt that they could not 
meet the eye of the holy patriarch, and drew their veils closer 
around them in the streets. Thus all the plans of the young 
had a tacit reference to his opinion, and the hope of his appro- 
bation and benediction mingled with their brightest prospects. 
" What will Sheshbazzar think of me?" was a question, which, 
however simple in itself, disentangled whole webs of sophistry, 
and unmasked the most, plausible appearances. It revealed the 
secrets of the heart to the conscience, and the frauds of the 
conscience to the judgment. It was, indeed, a simple question ; 
but it searched the reins like " the candle of the Lord," — be- 
cause all who reflected, felt that the good old man could have 
no object but their good; and that whatever influence he had 
acquired over them, was won, not by stratagem, but by weight 
and worth of character. It was the spell of his fine spirit, 
which, like the mantle of Elijah, cast upon the plow-man of 
Abelmeholah, drew them after him as with " cords of love." 

Amongst the daughters of the covenant, who listened to his 
wisdom, and loved his approbation, Rachel was the most en- 
thusiastic. She was modest as the lily of the valley, but sen- 
sitive as the tremulous dewdrops which gemmed it. Like the 
clouds of the spring upon Carmel or Hermon, she wept and 
smiled in the same hour. Her spirit soared at times like the 
eagle of Engedi, until lost in the light which is full of glory ; 
and, anon, it drooped like the widowed dove in the gloomy ave- 
nues of Heshbon and Kedron. She was alternately glowing 



FLOWERY STYLE. 165 

and freezing ; too high or too low. In all things, but in her 
modest gentleness, she was the creature of circumstances. 
Even in religion, she had no fixed principles. She was feeling- 
ly alive to its beauties, but dead to its real spirit. Whilst it in- 
spired thoughts which breathed, and words which burned with 
immortality, she was enraptured with it : but when its oracles 
or ordinances led to thoughts of penitence, or words of humilia- 
tion, she had no sympathy of spirit with them. She wept, in- 
deed, over her fallen nature ; but not because it was fallen from 
the moral image of Jehovah. The loss of intellectual power, 
not the loss of holy feeling, grieved her. She felt deeply mor- 
tified, because she could not maintain all the mental elevation 
of a rational being; and she thought her mortification humility ! 
She deplored the weakness and waywardness of her mind, in 
the strongest terms of self-abasement ; but not because her 
mind disliked secret prayer and self-examination. She lament- 
ed that she had so little communion with God ; but it was not 
the communion of a child with a father, nor of a penitent with 
a Savior, but the communion of a poet with the God of nature 
— of a finite spirit with the Infinite Spirit — that had charms for 
her. She admired the prophets ; but not for the holiness which 
rendered them temples meet for the Holy Spirit to dwell in, 
and speak from ; but because of their mysterious dignity, as 
the ambassadors of heaven. She gloried in the altars and 
mercy-seat of the temple ; not as they were types of salvation 
by the atonement of the promised Messiah, but as they were the 
seat and shrine of the cloud of glory and the sacred fire. 

All this Sheshbazzar saw and lamented. But Rachel was 
gentle, and he loved her ; she had genius, and he admired her. 
Men of one idea thought her mad ; and men with half a heart 
deemed her a mere visionary. Sheshbazzar regarded her as 
a young vine among the rocks of the Dead Sea, whose grapes 
are embittered by the bitumen of the soil; and he hoped, by 
transplanting and pruning, to displace its poisonous juices. 
But the difficulty was, to convince her, that even her virtues 
were like the grapes of Gomorrah, unfit to be presented " be- 
fore the Lord, in the waive-offering of the first fruits," or to be 
mingled in " the drink-offering." They were indeed so ; for, 
like the vines of Gomorrah, she bore fruit to herself, not to the 
glory of God. Her morality was high-toned ; but only be- 
cause she reckoned immorality beneath the dignity of female 
character. Her taste was simple; but only because she deem- 
ed follies unworthy of her talents. Her sympathies were 



168 young lady's reader. 

prompt and tender ; but they were indulged more for the luxury 
of deep emotion, than for the sake of doing good. What be- 
came her — as a woman, and a woman whom Sheshbazzar reck- 
oned "one of a thousand," was both the reason and the rule of 
her excellencies. She never prayed for grace to sanctify or 
sustain her character : and as her tastes and pursuits were far 
above even the comprehension, as well as the level of ordina- 
ry minds, Rachel "never suspected that her "heart was not right 
with God." The elders of the city had, indeed, often told her 
so in plain terms, made plainer by the shaking of their hoary 
heads : but, although she was too gentle to repel the charge, 
she only pitied their prejudices. Sheshbazzar, as she imagin- 
ed, thought very differently of her ; and his smile was set 
against their insinuations. He perceived this mistake, and 
proceeded to correct it. He had borne with it long, in hope 
that it would gradually correct j itself. He had made allow- 
ances, and exercised patience, and kept silence on the subject, 
until his treatment of Rachel began to be reckoned weakness, 
and not wisdom, by his best friends. His plan had been to bear 
aloft his young eaglet upon his own mighty wings, until she 
breathed the air of spirits, and bathed in the light of eternity : 
and then to throw her off upon the strength of her own pinions, 
that she might, whilst he hovered near to intercept a sudden 
fall, soar higher in the empyrean of glory, and come down 
" changed in the same image," and humbled by the " exceed- 
ing weight" of that glory. But the experiment failed: she 
descended mortified because of her weakness, not humbled be- 
cause of her unworthiness. He resolved, therefore, 

" To change his hand, and check her pride." 

" Rachel," said Sheshbazzar, " the first day of vintage is 
near at hand, and there is but little fruit on my vines : could 
we not send to the Dead Sea for grapes of Gomorrah, and pre- 
sent them before the Lord, ' as a waive-offering, and pour them 
out as a drink-offering V " 

Rachel was surprised at the question ; for it was put solemn- 
ly, and betrayed no symptom of irony. 

"Grapes of Gomorrah!" Rachel exclaimed; "ask rather, 
if strange fire, or a torn lamb, may be safely presented at the 
altar of Jehovah? But Sheshbazzar mocketh his handmaid. 
The curse is upon all the ground of the cities of the plain ; 
and moreover, the grapes of Gomorrah are as bitter as they are 
beautiful. Even the wild goats turn away from the vines of 



FLOWERY STYLE. 167 

Sodorn. "What does my father mean 1 The form of thy coun- 
tenance is changed ! Like the spies, I will go to Eshcol or 
Engedi for clusters to present before the Lord ; for the Lord 
our God is a jealous God." 

" True, my daughter," said Sheshbazzar; " and if it would 
be sacrilege to present the grapes of Gomorrah in the waive- 
offering, because they grow on the land of the curse, and have 
imbibed its bitterness ; how must a jealous and holy God re- 
ject the homage of a proud spirit 1 The fruits of that spirit 
draw their juices from a soil more deeply cursed than the As- 
phaltic, — and of which Gomorrah, when in flames, was but a 
feeble emblem." 

" But, Sheshbazzar," said Rachel, " to whom does this ap- 
ply ? Not to your spirit ; for it is a veiled seraph, lowliest in 
itself when loftiest in its adoring contemplations. And my 
spirit — is too weak to be proud. I feel myself a mere atom 
amidst infinity. I feel less than nothing, when I realize the In- 
finite Spirit of the universe." 

" It is well, my daughter ; but what do you feel when you 
realize Him as the Holy One who inhabiteth eternity 1 Ra- 
chel ! I never heard you exclaim, God be merciful to me a sin- 
ner ! You have called yourself an atom in the universe — an 
insect in the solar blaze — an imperfect grape on the vine of be- 
ing : any thing but a sinner. It was not thus that Abraham, 
and Job, and Isaiah, felt before the Lord. It is not thus that I 
feel. You think me like the grapes of Sibmah and Engedi, 
ripe for the service of the heavenly temple. Ah, my daughter ! 
nothing but ' the blood of the everlasting covenant' keeps me 
from despair ; and there is nothing else between you and 
tophet." 

Rachel trembled. She had never marked the humility of 
the patriarchs, nor paused to consider what the soul and sin 
must be — seeing they required such an atonement. She re- 
tired weeping; and, for the first time, retreated into her closet 
to pray for mercy. 



168 



SIMPLE STYLE. 



LIEN CHI ALTANGI'S DESCRIPTION OF AN ENGLISH FINE 
LADY. — Goldsmith. 

To speak my secret sentiments, most reverend Fum, the la- 
dies here are horribly ugly ; I can hardly endure the sight of 
them ; they no way resemble the beauties of China : the Eu- 
ropeans have quite a different idea of beauty from us. When 
I reflect on the small-footed perfections of an eastern beauty, 
how is it possible I should have eyes for a woman whose feet 
are ten inches long ? 1 shall never forget the beauties of my 
native city of Nanfew. How very broad their faces ! how 
very short their noses ! how very little their eyes ! how very 
thin their lips! how very black their teeth! the snow on the 
tops of Bao is not fairer than their cheeks ; and their eyebrows 
are small as the line by the pencil of Quamsi. Here a lady 
with such perfections would be frightful ; Dutch and Chinese 
beauties, indeed, have some resemblance, but English women 
are entirely different ; red cheeks, big eyes, and teeth of a 
most odious whiteness, are not only seen here, but wished for ; 
and then they have such masculine feet, as actually serve some 
for walking ! 

Yet uncivil as nature has been, they seem resolved to outdo 
her in unkindness ; they use white powder, blue powder, and 
black powder, for their hair, and a red powder for the face, on 
some particular occasions. 

They like to have the face of various colors, as among the 
Tartars of Koreki, frequently sticking on, with spittle, little 
black patches on every part of it, except on the tip of the nose, 
which I have never seen with a patch. You'll have a better 
idea of their manner of placing these spots, when 1 have finish- 
ed the map of an English face patched up to the fashion, which 
shall shortly be sent to increase your curious collection of 
paintings, medals, and monsters. 

But what surprises more than all the rest, is what I have 
just now been credibly informed by one of this country. , 
" Most ladies here," says he, " have two faces ; one face to 
sleep in, and another to show in company : the first is general- 
ly reserved for the husband and family at home ; the other put 
on to please strangers abroad : the family face is often indif- 



SIMPLE STYLE. 



169 



ferent enough, but the out-door one looks something better ; 
this is always made at the toilet, where the looking-glass and 
toad-eater sit in council, and settle the complexion of the day." 
I can't ascertain the truth of this remark ; however, it is 
actually certain, that they wear more clothes within doors than 
without ; and I have seen a lady, who seemed to shudder at a 
breeze in her own apartment, appear half naked in the streets. 
Farewell. 



QUEEN ELIZABETH.— McIntosh. 

The reign of queen Elizabeth may be considered as the open- 
ing of the modern history of England, especially in its connex- 
ion with the modern system of Europe, which began about 
that time to assume the form that it preserved till the French 
revolution. It was a very memorable period, of which the 
maxims ought to be engraven on the head and heart of every 
Englishman. Philip II. , at the head of the greatest empire 
then in the world, was openly aiming at universal domination, 
and his project was so far from being thought chimerical by 
the wisest of his contemporaries, that, in the opinion of the 
great Due de Sully, he must have been successful, " if by a 
most singular combination of circumstances, he had not at the 
same time, been resisted by two such strong heads as those of 
Henry IV. and queen Elizabeth." To the most extensive and 
opulent dominions, the most numerous and disciplined armies, 
the most renowned captains, the greatest revenue, he added 
also the most formidable power over opinion. He was the 
chief of a religious faction, animated by the most atrocious 
fanaticism, prepared to second his ambition by rebellion, anar- 
chy, and regicide, in every protestant state. Elizabeth was 
among the first objects of his hostility. That wise and mag- 
nanimous princess placed herself in the front of the battle for 
the liberties of Europe. Though she had to contend at home 
with his fanatical faction, which almost occupied Ireland, which 
divided Scotland, and was not of contemptible strength in 
England, she aided the oppressed inhabitants of the Nether- 
lands, in their just and glorious resistance to his tyranny ; she 
aided Henry the Great, in suppressing the abominable rebel- 
lion which anarchical principles had excited, and Spanish arms 
had supported in France, and after a long reign of fortune, in 

15 



i 



170 young lady's reader. 

which she preserved her unconquered spirit through great 
calamities, and still greater dangers, she at length broke the 
strength of the enemy, and reduced his power within such 
limits as to be compatible with the safety of England, and of 
all Europe. Her only effectual ally was the spirit of her peo- 
ple, and her policy flowed from that magnanimous nature, 
which, in the hour of peril, teaches better lessons than those of 
cold reason. Her great heart inspired her with a higher and 
a nobler wisdom — which disdained to appeal to the low and 
sordid passions of her people, even for the protection of their 
low and sordid interests, because she knew, or rather she felt, 
that these are effeminate, creeping, cowardly, short-sighted pas- 
sions, which shrink from conflict, even in defense of their own 
mean objects. In a righteous cause she roused those generous 
affections of her people, which alone teach boldness, constancy, 
and foresight, and which are therefore the only safe guardians 
of the lowest as well as the highest interests of a nation. In 
her memorable address to her army, when the invasion of the 
kingdom was threatened by Spain, this woman of heroic spirit 
disdained to speak to them of their ease, and their commerce, 
and their wealth, and their safety. No ! She touched another 
chord. She spoke of their national honor, of their dignity as 
Englishmen, of " the foul scorn that Parma or Spain should 
dare to invade the borders of her realms." She breathed into 
them those grand and powerful sentiments which exalt vulgar 
men into heroes, which lead them into the battles of their coun- 
try, armed with holy and irresistible enthusiasm; which even 
cover with their shield all the ignoble interests that base calcu- 
lation and cowardly selfishness tremble to hazard, but shrink 
from defending. A sort of prophetic instinct, if I may so 
speak, seems to have revealed to her the importance of that 
great instrument for rousing and guiding the minds of men, of 
the effects of which she had no experience ; which, since her 
time, has changed the condition of the world ; but which few 
modern statesmen have thoroughly understood, or wisely em- 
ployed ; which is no doubt connected with many ridiculous 
and degrading details, which has produced, and may again pro- 
duce terrible mischiefs ; but of which the influence must, after 
all, be considered as the most certain effect, and the most effi- 
cacious cause of civilization, and which, whether it be a bless- 
ing or a curse, is the most powerful engine that, a politician can 
move — I mean the press. It is a curious fact, that in the year 
of the Armada, queen Elizabeth caused to be printed the first 



I 



SIMPLE STYLE. 171 

gazettes that ever appeared in England ; and I own, when I 
consider that this mode of rousing a national spirit was then 
absolutely unexampled, that she could have no assurance of its 
efficacy, from the precedents of former times, I am disposed to 
regard her having recourse to it, as one of the most sagacious 
experiments, one of the greatest discoveries of political genius, 
one of the most striking anticipations of future experience, 
that we find in history, I mention it to you, to justify the 
opinion that I have ventured to state, of the close connexion of 
our national spirit with our press, even our periodical press. 

I cannot quit the reign of Elizabeth, without laying before 
you the maxims of her policy, in the language of the greatest 
and wisest of men. Lord Bacon, in one part of his discourse 
on her reign, speaks thus of her support of Holland : " But let 
me rest upon the honorable and continual aid and relief she 
hath given to the distressed and desolate people of the low 
countries ; a people recommended unto her by ancient confed- 
eracy and daily intercourse ; by their cause so innocent, and 
their fortune so lamentable !" In another passage of the same 
discourse, he thus speaks of the general system of her foreign 
policy, as the protector of Europe, in words too remarkable to 
require any commentary. " Then it is her government, and 
her government alone, that hath been the sconce and fort of all 
Europe, which hath kept this proud nation from overrunning all. 
If any state be yet free from his factions erected in the bowels 
thereof; if there be any state under his protection, that enjoy- 
eth moderate liberty, upon whom he tyrannizeth not ; it is the 
mercy of this renowned queen, that standeth between them and 
their misfortunes !" 



RUSTIC WEDDING AND FUNERAL.— Longfellow. 

I was one morning called to my window by the sound of 
rustic music. I looked out, and beheld a procession of vil- 
lagers advancing along the road, attired in gay dresses, and 
marching merrily on in the direction of the church. I soon 
perceived that it was a marriage festival. The procession 
was led by a long ourang-outang of a man, in a straw hat and 
white dimity bob-coat, playing on an asthmatic clarionet, from 
which he contrived to blow unearthly sounds, ever and anon 
squeaking off at right angles from his tune, and winding up 



172 young lady's reader. 

with a grand flourish on the guttural notes. Behind him, led 
by his little boy, came the blind fiddler, his honest features 
glowing with all the hilarity of a rustic bridal, and, as he stum- 
bled along, sawing away upon his fiddle till he made all crack 
again. Then came the happy bridegroom, dressed in his Sun- 
day suit of blue, with a large nosegay in his button-hole, and 
close beside him his blushing bride, with downcast eyes, clad 
in a white robe and slippers, and wearing a wreath of white 
roses in her hair. The friends and relatives brought up the 
procession ; and a troop of village urchins came shouting along 
in the rear, scrambling among themselves for the largess of 
sous and sugar-plums that now and then issued in large handfuls 
from the pockets of a lean man in black, who seemed to offi- 
ciate as master of ceremonies on the occasion. I gazed on 
the procession till it was out of sight ; and when the last wheeze 
of the clarionet died upon my ear, I could not help thinking 
how happy were they who were thus to dwell together in the 
peaceful bosom of their native village, far from the gilded mis- 
ery and the pestilential vices of the town. 

On the evening of the same day, I was sitting by the window, 
enjoying the freshness of the air and the beauty and stillness 
of the hour, when I heard the distant and solemn hymn of the 
Catholic burial-service, at first so faint and indistinct that it 
seemed an illusion. It rose mournfully on the hush of eve- 
ning — died gradually away — then ceased. Then it rose again, 
nearer and more distinct, and soon after a funeral procession 
appeared, and passed directly beneath my window. It was led 
by a priest, bearing the banner of the church, and followed by 
two boys, holding long flambeaux in their hands. Next came 
a double file of priests in white surplices, with a missal in one 
hand and a lighted wax taper in the other, chanting the funeral 
dirge at intervals, — now pausing, and then again taking up the 
mournful burden of their lamentation, accompanied by others, 
who played upon a rude kind of horn, with a dismal and wailing 
sound. Then followed various symbols of the church, and 
the bier borne on the shoulders of four men. The coffin was 
covered with a black velvet pall, and a chaplet of white flow- 
ers lay upon it, indicating that the deceased was unmarried. 
A few of the villagers came behind, clad in mourning robes, 
and bearing lighted tapers. The procession passed slowly 
along the same street that in the morning had been thronged 
by the gay bridal company. A melancholy train of thought 
forced itself home upon my mind. The joys and sorrows of 



SIMPLE STYLE. 173 

this world are so strikingly mingled ! Our mirth and grief are 
brought so mournfully in contact ! We laugh while others 
weep, — and others rejoice when we are sad! The light heart 
and the heavy walk side by side, and go about together ! Be- 
neath the same roof are spread the wedding feast and the fune- 
ral pall ! The bridal song mingles with the burial hymn ! One 
goes to the marriage bed, another to the grave ; and all is mu- 
table, uncertain, and transitory. 



MARCO BOZZARIS.— Stevens. 

Moving on beyond the range of ruined houses, though still 
within the line of crumbling walls, we came to a spot perhaps 
as interesting" as any that Greece in her best days could show. 
It was the tomb of Marco Bozzaris ! No monumental marble 
emblazoned his deeds and fame ; a few round stones piled over 
his head, which, but for our guide, we should have passed with- 
out noticing, were all that marked his grave. I would not dis- 
turb a proper reverence for the past ; time covers with its dim 
and twilight glories both distant scenes and the men who acted 
in them ; but, to my mind, Miltiades was not more of a hero at 
Marathon, or Leonidas at Thermopylae, than Marco Bozzaris at 
Missilonghi. When they went out against the hosts of Persia, 
Athens and Sparta were great and free, and they had the pros- 
pect of glory and the praise of men, to the Greeks always 
dearer than life. But when the Suliote chief drew his sword, 
his country lay bleeding at the feet of a giant, and all Europe 
condemned the Greek revolution as foolhardy and desperate. 
For two months, with but a few hundred men, protected only 
by a ditch and slight parapet of earth, he defended the town 
where his body now rests, against the whole Egyptian army. 
In stormy weather, living upon bad and unwholesome bread, 
with no covering but his cloak, he passed his days and nights 
in constant vigil ; in every assault his sword cut down the fore- 
most assailant, and his voice, rising above the din of battle, 
struck terror into the hearts of the enemy. In the struggle 
which ended with his life, with two thousand men he proposed 
to attack the whole army of Mustapha Pacha, and called upon 
all who were willing to die for their country to stand forward. 
The whole band advanced to a man. Unwilling to sacrifice so 
many brave men in a death struggle, he chose three hundred, 

15* 



174 young lady's reader. 

the sacred number of the Spartan band, his tried and trusty 
Suliotes. At midnight he placed himself at their head, direct- 
ing that not a shot should be fired till he sounded his bugle ; 
and his last command was, " If you lose sight of me, seek me 
in the pacha's tent." In the moment of victory he ordered the 
pacha to be seized, and received a ball in the loins ; his voice 
still rose above the din of battle, cheering his men, until he 
was struck by another ball in the head, and borne dead from 
the field of his glory. 

Not far from the grave of Bozzaris was a pyramid of sculls, 
of men who had fallen in the last attack upon the city, piled 
up near the blackened and battered wall which they had 
died in defending". In my after wanderings I learned to look 
more carelessly upon these things ; and, perhaps, noticing eve- 
ry where the light estimation put upon human life in the East, 
learned to think more lightly of it myself; but, then, it was 
melancholy to see bleaching in the sun, under the eyes of their 
countrymen, the unburied bones of men who, but a little while 
ago, stood with swords in their hands, and animated by the 
noble resolution to free their country or die in the attempt. Onr 
guide told us that they had all been collected in that place with 
a view to sepulture ; and that king Otho, as soon as he became 
of age and took the government into his own hands, intended 
to erect a monument over them. In the mean time, they are at 
the mercy of every passing traveler ; and the only remark that 
our guide made, was a comment upon the force and unerring 
precision of the blow of the Turkish sabre, almost every skull 
being laid open on the side, nearly down to the ear. 

But the most interesting part of our day at Missilonghi was 
to come. Returning from a ramble round the walls, we no- 
ticed a large square house, which, our guide told us, was the 
residence of Constantine, the brother of Marco Bozzaris. We 
were all interested in this intelligence, and our interest was in 
no small degree increased when he added that the widow and 
two of the children of the Suliote chief were living with his 
brother. The house was surrounded by a high stone wall, a 
large gate stood most invitingly wide open, and we turned 
toward it in the hope of catching a glimpse of the inhabitants ; 
but, before we reached the gate, our interest had increased to such 
a point that, after consulting with our guide, we requested him 
to say, that if it would not be considered an intrusion, three 
travelers, two of them Americans, would feel honored in being 
permitted to pay their respects to the widow and children of 
Marco Bozzaris. 



SIMPLE SETTLE. 175 

We were invited in, and shown into a large room on the right, 
where three Greeks were sitting cross-legged on a divan, smo- 
king the long Turkish chibouk. Soon after, the brother entered, 
a man about fifty, of middling height, spare built, and wearing 
a Bavarian uniform, as holding a colonel's commission in the 
service of king Otho. In the dress of the dashing Suliote he 
would have better looked the brother of Marco Bozzaris, and 
I might then more easily have recognized the daring warrior, 
who, on the field of battle, in a moment of extremity, was 
deemed, by universal acclamation, worthy of succeeding the 
fallen hero. Now the straight military frock-coat, buttoned 
tight across the breast, the stock, tight pantaloons, boots, and 
straps, seemed to repress the free energies of the mountain 
warrior ; and I could not but think how awkward it must be for 
one who had spent all his life in a dress which hardly touched 
him, at fifty to put on a stock, and straps to his boots. Our 
guide introduced us, with an apology for our intrusion. The 
colonel received us with great kindness, thanked us for the 
honor done his brother's widow, and, requesting us to be seated, 
ordered coffee and pipes. 

And here, on the very first day of our arrival in Greece, and 
from a source which made us proud, we had the first evidence 
of what afterward met me at every step, the warm feeling ex- 
isting in Greece toward America ; for almost the first thing 
that the brother of Marco Bozzaris said, was to express his 
gratitude as a Greek for the services rendered his country by 
our own; and, after referring to the provisions sent out for his 
famishing countrymen, his eye sparkled and his cheek flushed 
as he told us, that when the Greek revolutionary flag first sailed 
into the port of Napoli di Romania, among hundreds of vessels 
of all nations, an American captain was the first to recognize 
and salute it. 

In a few moments the widow of Marco Bozzaris entered. 
I have often been disappointed in my pre-conceived notions of 
personal appearance, but it was not so with the lady who now 
stood before me ; she looked the widow of a hero ; as one 
worthy of her Grecian mothers, who gave their hair for bow- 
strings, their girdle for a sword-belt, and, while their heart, 
strings were cracking, sent their young lovers from their arms 
to fight and perish for their country. Perhaps it was she that 
led Marco Bozzaris into the path of immortality ; that roused 
him from the wild guerilla warfare in which he had passed his 
early life, and fired him with the high and holy ambition of 



176 young lady's reader. 

freeing his country. Of one thing I am certain, no man could 
look in her face without finding his wavering purposes fixed, 
without treading more firmly in the path of high and honorable 
enterprise. She was under forty, tall and stately in person, 
and habited in deep black, fit emblem of her widowed condition, 
with a white handkerchief laid flat over her head, giving the 
Madonna cast to her dark eyes and marble complexion. We 
all rose as she entered the room ; and though living secluded, 
and seldom seeing the face of a stranger, she received our 
compliments and returned them with far less embarrassment 
than we both felt and exhibited. 

But our embarrassment, at least I speak for myself, was in- 
duced by an unexpected circumstance. Much as T. was inter- 
ested in her appearance, I was not insensible to the fact that 
she was accompanied by two young and beautiful girls, who 
were introduced to us as her daughters. This somewhat be- 
wildered me. While waiting for their appearance, and talking 
with Constantine Eozzaris, I had in some way conceived the 
idea that the daughters were mere children, and had fully made 
up my mind to take them both on my knee and kiss them ; but 
the appearance of the stately mother recalled me to the grave 
of Bozzaris ; and the daughters would probably have thought 
that I was taking liberties upon so short an acquaintance if I 
had followed up my benevolent purpose in regard to them ; so 
that, with the long pipe in my hand, which, at that time I did 
not know how to manage well, I cannot flatter myself that I 
exhibited any of the benefit of Continental travel. 

The elder was about sixteen, and even in the opinion of my 
friend Dr. W., a cool judge in these matters, a beautiful girl, 
possessing in its fullest extent all the elements of Grecian 
beauty : a dark, clear complexion, dark hair, set off by a little 
red cap embroidered with gold thread, and a long blue tassel 
hanging down behind, and large black eyes, expressing a mel- 
ancholy quiet, but which might be excited to shoot forth glances 
of fire more terrible than her father's sword. Happily, too, 
for us, she talked French, having learned it from a French 
marquis who had served in Greece and been domesticated 
with them ; but young and modest, and unused to the company 
of strangers, she felt the embarrassment common to young 
ladies when attempting to speak a foreign language. And we 
could not talk to her on common themes. Our lips were sealed, 
of course, upon the subject which had brought us to her house. 
We could not sound for her the praises of her gallant father. 



VEHEMENT STYLE. 177 

At parting, however, I told them that the name of Marco Boz- 
zaris was as familiar in America as that of a hero of our own 
revolution, and that it had been hallowed by the inspiration of 
an American poet ; and I added that, if it would not be unac- 
ceptable, on my return to my native country 1 would send the 
tribute referred to, as an evidence of the feeling existing in 
America toward the memory of Marco Bozzaris. My offer 
was gratefully accepted; and afterward, while in the act of 
mounting my horse to leave Missilonghi, our guide, who had 
remained behind, came to me with a message from the widow 
and daughters reminding me of my promise. 

I make no apology for introducing in a book the widow and 
daughters of Marco Bozzaris. True, I was received by them 
in private, without any expectation, either on their part or mine, 
that all the particulars of the interview would be noted and laid 
before the eyes of all who choose to read. I hope it will not 
be considered invading the sanctity of private life ; but, at all 
events, I make no apology ; the widow and children of Marco 
Bozzaris are the property of the world. 



VEHEMENT STYLE. 



HUMAN DEPRAVITY.— Saurin. 

Nature is so depraved, that man without supernatural aids 
cannot conform to the conditions of his salvation. Would to 
God that this proposition was less true ! Would to God that 
we had more difficulty in proving it ! But study your own 
hearts. Listen to what it whispers in your ear concerning the 
precepts God has given in his word ! listen to it on the sight 
of the man who has offended you. What animosity ! what 
detestation ! what revenge ! Listen to it in prosperity. What 
ambition ! what pride! what arrogance ! Listen to it when we 
exhort you to humility, to patience, to charity. What evasions ! 
what repugnance ! what excuses ! From the study of your 
own heart, proceed to that of others. Examine the infancy, 
the life, the death of man. In his infancy, you will see the 



178 young lady's READEH. 

fatal germ of his corruption ; sad, but sensible proof of the 
depravity of } r our nature ; and alarming omen of the future. 
You will see him prone to evil from his very cradle, indicating 
from his early years the seeds of every vice, and roving from 
the arms of his nurses, preludes of all the excesses into which 
he will fall as soon as his capacity is able to aid his corruption. 
Contemplate him in mature age ; see what connections he 
forms with his associates ! Connections of ambition ; connec- 
tions of avarice ; connection:- of cupidity. Look at him in 
the hour of death, and you will see him torn from a world from 
which he cannot detach his heart, regretting even the objects 
which have constituted his crimes, and carrying to the tomb, 
if I may so speak, the very passions which, during life, have 
divided the empire of his soul. 



THE FEDERAL CONSTITUTION.— Patrick Henry. 

This constitution is said to have beautiful features ; but. 
when I come to examine these features, sir, they appear to me 
horridly frightful. Among other deformities, it has an awful 
squinting ; it squints towards monarchy : and does not this 
raise indignation in the breast of every true American ? Your 
president may easily become king. Your senate is so imper- 
fectly constructed, that your dearest rights may be sacrificed 
by what may be a small minority : and a very small minority 
may continue forever unchangeably this government, although 
horribly defective. Where are your checks in this government ? 
Your strong holds will be in the hands of your enemies. It is 
on supposition that your American governors shall be honest, 
that all the good qualities of this government are founded ; but 
its defective and imperfect construction, puts it in their power 
to perpetrate the worst of mischiefs, should they be bad men. 
And, sir, would not all the world, from the eastern to the west- 
ern hemisphere, blame our distracted folly in resting our rights 
upon the contingency of our rulers being good or bad ? Show 
me that age and country where the rights and liberties of the 
people were placed on the sole chance of their rulers being 
good men, without a consequent loss of liberty. I say that the 
loss of that dearest privilege has ever followed, with absolute 
certainty, every such mad attempt. If your American chief 
be a man of ambition and abilities, how easy will it be for him 



VEHEMENT STYLE, 179 

to render himself absolute ! The army is in his hands, and if 
he be a man of address, it will be attached to him ; and it will 
be the subject of long meditation with him to seize the first 
auspicious moment to accomplish his design. And, sir, will 
the American spirit solely relieve you when this happens ? I 
would rather infinitely, and I am sure most of this convention 
are of the same opinion, have a king, lords and commons, than a 
government so replete with such insupportable evils. If we make 
a king, we may prescribe the rules by which he shall rule his 
people, and interpose such checks as shall prevent him from 
infringing them : but the president in the field, at the head of 
his army, can .prescribe the terms on which he shall reign 
master, so far that it will puzzle any American ever to get his 
neck from under the galling yoke. I cannot, with patience, 
think of this idea. If ever he violates the laws, one of two 
things will happen : he will come at the head of his army to 
carry every thing before him ; or he will give bail, or do what 
Mr. Chief Justice wall order him. If he be guilty, will not 
the recollection of his crimes teach him to make one bold push 
for the American throne ? Will not the immense difference 
between being master of every thing, and being ignominiously 
tried and punished, powerfully excite him to make this bold 
push 1 But, sir, where is the existing force to punish him 1 
Can he not, at the head of his army, beat down every opposi- 
tion ? Away with your president, we shall have a king : the 
army will salute him monarch ; } r our militia will leave you, 
and assist in making him king, and fight against you : and 
what have you to oppose this force 1 What will then become 
of you and your rights 1 Will not absolute despotism ensue 1 



INFIDEL PHILOSOPHY.— Robert Hall. 

We might ask the patrons of infidelity what fury impels 
them to attempt the subversion of Christianity ? Is it that 
they have discovered a better system ? To what virtues are 
their principles favorable 1 Or is there one which Christians 
have not carried to a higher perfection than any of which their 
party can boast ? Have they discovered a more excellent rule 
of life, or a better hope in death, than that which the scrip- 
Above all, what are the pretensions on which 



180 young lady's reader. 

they rest their claims to be the guides of mankind ; or which 
imbolden them to expect we should trample upon the experience 
of ages, and abandon a religion which has been attested by a 
train of miracles and prophecies, in which millions of our fore- 
fathers have found a refuge in every trouble, and consolation in 
the hour of death; a religion which has been adorned with the 
highest sanctity of character and splendor of talents ; which 
enrols among its disciples the names of Bacon, Newton, and 
Locke, the glory of their species, and to which these illustri- 
ous men were proud to dedicate the last and best fruits of their 
immortal genius ? 

If the question at issue is to be decided by argument, noth- 
ing can be added to the triumph of Christianity ; if by an ap- 
peal to authority, what have our adversaries to oppose to these 
great names ? Where are the infidels of such pure, uncontam- 
inated morals, unshaken probity, and extended benevolence, 
that we should be in danger of being seduced into impiety by 
their example ? Into what obscure recesses of misery, into 
what dungeons have their philanthropists penetrated, to lighten 
the fetters and relieve the sorrows of the helpless captive ? 
What barbarous tribes have their apostles visited ; what distant 
climes have they explored, encompassed with cold, nakedness, 
and want, to diffuse principles of virtue, and the blessings of 
civilization 1 Or will they rather choose to waive their preten- 
sions to this extraordinary, and, in their eyes, eccentric species 
of benevolence, (for infidels, we know, are sworn enemies to 
enthusiasm of every sort,) and rest their character on their po- 
litical exploits, — on their efforts to re-animate the virtue of a 
sinking state, to restrain licentiousness, to calm the tumult of 
popular fury, and by inculcating the spirit of justice, modera- 
tion, and pity for fallen greatness, to mitigate the inevitable 
horrors of revolution ? our adversaries will at least have the 
discretion, if not the modesty, to recede from the test. 

More than all, their infatuated eagerness, their parricidal zeal 
to extinguish a sense of Deity, must excite astonishment and 
horror. Is the idea of an almighty and perfect Ruler unfriendly 
to any passion which is consistent with innocence, or an ob- 
struction to any design which it is not shameful to avow 1 
Eternal God, on what are thine enemies intent! What are 
those enterprises of guilt and horror, that, for the safety of 
their performers, require to be enveloped in a darkness which 
the eye of heaven must not pierce ! Miserable men ! Proud 
of being the offspring of chance ; in love with universal disor- 



VEHEMENT STYLE. 181 

der ; whose happiness is involved in the belief of there being 
no witness to their designs, and who are at ease only because 
they suppose themselves inhabitants of a forsaken and fatherless 
world ! 



THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.— Burke. 

I wish to see the established church of England great and 
powerful ; I wish to see her foundations laid low and deep, that 
she may crush the giant powers of rebellious dai'kness. I 
would have her head raised up to that heaven to which she 
conducts us. I would have her cherish all those who are 
within, and pity all those who are without ; I would have her 
a common blessing to the world ; an example, if not an instruct- 
or, to those who have not the happiness to belong to her ; I 
would have her give a lesson of peace to mankind, that a vexed 
and wandering generation might be taught to seek for repose 
and toleration in the maternal bosom of Christian charity, and 
not in the lap of infidelity and indifference. Long may we 
enjoy our church under a learned and edifying episcopacy. 
But episcopacy may fail, and religion exist. The most horrid 
and cruel blow that can be offered to civil society, is through 
atheism. Do not promote diversity ; when you have it, bear 
it ; have as many sorts of religion as you find in your country; 
there is a reasonable worship in them all. The others, the 
infidels, are outlaws of the constitution ; not of this country, 
but of the human race. They are never, never to be supported, 
never to be tolerated. Under the systematic attacks of these 
people, I see some of the props of good government already 
begin to fail ; T. see propagated principles, which will not leave 
to religion even a toleration. I see myself sinking every day 
under the attacks of these wretched people. How shall I arm 
myself against them ? by uniting all those in affection who are 
united in the belief of the great principles of the Godhead that 
made and sustains the world. They who hold revelation give 
double assurance to the country. Even the man who does not 
hold revelation, yet wishes that it were proved to him — who 
observes a pious silence with regard to it, such a man, though 
not a Christian, is governed by religious principles. Let him 
be tolerated in this country. Let it be but a serious religion, 
natural or revealed, take what you can get ; cherish, blow up 
the lightest spark. One day it may be a pure and holy flame. 

16 



182 young lady's reader. 

By this proceeding j^ou form an alliance, offensive and defen- 
sive, against those great ministers of darkness in the world, 
who are endeavoring to shake all the works of God established 
in order and beauty. Perhaps I am carried too far ; but the 
honorable gentleman would have us fight a confederacy of all 
the powers of darkness with the single arm of the church of 
England ; would have us fight, not only against infidelity, but 
fight at the same time with all the faith in the world except our 
own. In the moment we make a front against the common 
enemy, we have to combat with those who are the natural 
friends of our cause. Strong as we are, we are not equal to 
this. The cause of the church of England is included in that 
of religion, not that of religion in the church of England. I 
will stand up at all times for the rights of conscience, as it is 
such, not for its particular modes against its general principles. 
One may be right, another mistaken ; but if I have more 
strength than my brother, it shall be employed to support, not 
to oppress his weakness ; if I have more light, it shall be used 
to guide, not to dazzle him. 



CONSCIENCE.— Taylor. 

No power, no decree, human or divine, no amnesty, can 
actually alienate from a man his property in a crime he has 
perpetrated. 

Let us then contemplate this companion of our existence ; — 
and let us extenuate, conceal, adorn the unpleasing reality. 
How peculiar were the inducements ; — how much did circum- 
stances, in which we were not to blame, concur, almost to ne- 
cessitate the act ! Virtue, at the moment, was not on the alert. 
A.nd then the actual injury that resulted, was not nearly so great 
as it might have been; — ourselves were the chief sufferers: — 
amends have been made : — the victim even, has forgotten the 
wrong : — the world has pronounced a full pardon : — nothing — 
nothing remains ; — but memory and conscience : — it is as if it 
were not. No ; we cannot ourselves fall in with this illusion. 
There have been cases in which a man, disordered in mind, has 
thought himself incessantly followed by some ghastly phan- 
tom : — he has mixed in the crowd ; — he has hurried from place 
to place ; — he has plunged into the heart of revelry, and has 
fondly for a moment believed, that he had actually eluded his 
pursuer : — no ; — at his side the cruel persecutor still stands up, 



VEHEMENT STYLE. 183 

and mocks his endeavors to escape. But the crime with which 
conscience holds so much familiarity, is a far more real and ter- 
rible companion. In the one case, if the mind could but be 
disabused and restored to soundness, the shadowy form would 
melt away and be forgotten ; but in this, the more the mind is 
sane, and vigorous, and calm, the more palpably and vividly 
does our grim attendant stand forth in our path. 

Or in order to feel, the more sensibly, the reality of our guilt, 
let it be placed by the side of a very possible supposition ; 
namely — that the temptation had been repelled — the force of 
evil passions withstood — the voice of conscience, which we 
well remember to have heard, listened to — and a victory actually 
obtained over the trying seduction. Is then the difference be- 
tween compliance and resistance of no account ? — is it a cir- 
cumstance not worthy of remembrance, whether a man stands 
or falls before his enemy ? Victory, we should have thought 
much of: — is not defeat as notable an event as conquest ? But 
if it may not be obliterated, in what light are we to regard this 
deep stain of sin, which has sunk into the soul? — 

Can we not bring ourselves to believe that the common no- 
tions of mankind, and the affirmations of religion, concerning 
invisible government, and retribution, and the difference be- 
tween good and evil, are a dream and a nullity ? This, if it 
could be done, would rid us at once of every uneasiness. — 
True — our crime stands on record ; but we have no more to do 
with it than with the forgotten deeds of antediluvians. — Alas ! 
no pains will avail to realize such a persuasion! Even if the 
positive and irrefragable proofs of the truth of religion could be 
subverted, an unquenchable instinct of the soul remains to re- 
tain hold of the notion of a moral system, and of law and 
justice. 

Yes, if nothing else can confer importance upon man — his 
crimes shall give him consequence. If there were no other 
argument for a future life, sin would furnish one never to be re- 
futed. We need descend into no depths of abstruse reasoning 
here : — the simplest notions are conclusive enough. There is 
a cause standing over between the impartial Judge and our- 
selves ; and a time for the hearing and decision of it must cer- 
tainly come. If indefinitely delayed and forgotten, all loyal 
orders must harbor dissatisfaction and fear ; while all who have 
actually been called to account and punished, will protest 
against the partiality, if conscience be but awake, the trans- 
gressor, as he stands at the verge of the present life, may thus 



184 young lady's reader. 

properly decide upon his own fate. — " I have sinned and per- 
verted that which was right. — Let me hide myself in the dark- 
ness of the grave ! No ; for God's ministers, and all beings — 
good and evil, shall demand me at the hands of death, and for- 
bid I should be forgotten. The dust may not screen me — the 
clods may not cover me. — Corruption may not say I am lost 
and gone. The highest tribunal is waiting my appearance ; 
and unless I am made there to stand, the honor of all govern- 
ment is blasted — the perfections of God impugned. — True, I 
am insignificant ; but yet am party in a cause in which the 
wisdom, and purity, and power of the eternal God are in 
question." 



THE BIBLE.— Miss Jewsbury. 

If it is the wonder of heaven to be independent of that book, 
it is the glory of earth to possess it. If the " spirits of the 
just made perfect," are admitted to behold the face of God, we, 
through the medium of the scriptures, may even here under- 
stand somewhat of his character: if they are received into his 
glory, we may be led by his counsel. 

But who, alas ! beholding the gross neglect or wandering at- 
tention the scriptures generally receive, would imagine that the 
possession of them was any privilege 1 that they contained the 
revelation of "the mystery hid from ages and generations," 
and still withheld from many nations and people ; that they, 
and they only, made known to us " the way of peace !" 

And yet as far as our species is concerned, we may say, one 
sun ! one bible ! Shut that awfully-glorious book — blot from the 
human memory all we have learnt from its pages, and it is as 
though you quenched the day-spring ! — the whole world lieth in 
darkness ! To guilty, miserable man, there remains no God ! 
— no heaven ! — no guide in life ! — no support in affliction ! — no 
victory over death ! the grave becomes a fathomless abyss, and 
eternity spreads round him like the ocean, dark, illimitable, 
fearful ! Open the bible again, — the sun is restored, and with 
it, life, glory, gladness, and strength ! If all the minds now on 
earth could be concentrated into one, and that one applied the 
whole of its stupendous energies to the study of this single 
book, it would never apprehend its doctrines in all their divine 
purity ; its promises in their overpowering fullness ; its pre- 
cepts in their searching extent ; — even that glorious mind, suf- 
ficient to exhaust the universe, would only discover that the 
scriptures were inexhaustible. 



185 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 



CHARACTER OF PAUL.— Milnek, 

.Paul ! Has such a man ever existed among all those who 
have inherited the corrupted nature of Adam ? He had evi- 
dently a soul of a large and capacious kind, possessed of 
those seemingly contradictory excellencies which, wherever 
they appear in combination, fail not to form an extraordinary 
character. But not only his talents were great and various — 
his learning also was profound and extensive ; and many per- 
sons with far inferior abilities and attainments, have effected 
national revolutions, or otherwise distinguished themselves in 
the history of mankind. His consummate fortitude was* tem- 
pered with the rarest gentleness, and the most active charity. 
His very copious and vivid imagination was chastised by the 
most accurate judgment, and was connected with the closest 
argumentative powers. Divine grace alone could effect so 
wonderful a combination ; insomuch, that for the space of near 
thirty years after his conversion, this man, whose natural 
haughtiness and fiery temper had hurried him into a very san- 
guinary course of persecution, lived the friend of mankind ; 
returned good for evil continually ; was a model of patience 
and benevolence, and steadily attentive only to heavenly things, 
while yet he had a taste, a spirit, and a genius, which might 
have shone among the greatest statesmen and men of letters 
that ever lived. 

We have then in these two men, a strong specimen of what 
grace can do, and we may fairly challenge all the infidels in 
the world, to produce any thing like them in the whole list of 
their heroes. Yet amidst the constant display of every godly 
and social virtue, we learn from Paul's own account, that he 
ever felt himself '• carnal, sold under sin," and that sin dwelt in 
him continually. From his writings we learn, what the depth 
of human wickedness is : and none of the apostles seem to 
have understood so much as he did, the riches of divine grace, 
and the peculiar glory of the christian religion. The doc- 
trines of election, justification, regeneration, adoption; of the 
priesthood and offices of Christ, and of the internal work of 

16* 



186 young lady's reader. 

the Holy Ghost, as well as the most perfect morality founded 
on christian principle, are to be found in his writings ; and 
what Quintilian said of Cicero, may be justly applied to the 
apostle of the Gentiles : " Ille se profecisse sciat, cui Paulus 
valde placebit." 



RIENZI.— Gibbon. 

In a quarter of the city which was inhabited only by me- 
chanics and Jews, the marriage of an innkeeper and a washer- 
woman produced the future deliverer of Rome. From such 
parents Nicholas Rienzi Gabrini could inherit neither dignity 
nor fortune ; and the gift of a liberal education, which they 
painfully bestowed, was the cause of his glory and untimely 
end. The study of history and eloquence, the writings of 
Cicero, Seneca, Livy, Caesar, and Valerius Maximus, elevated 
above his equals and contemporaries the genius of the young 
plebeian : he perused with indefatigable diligence the manu- 
scripts and marbles of antiquity : loved to dispense his know- 
ledge in familiar language ; and was often provoked to ex- 
claim, " Where are now these Romans ? their virtue, their jus- 
tice, their power 1 why was T not born in those happy times ?" 
When the republic addressed to the throne of Avignon an em- 
bassy of the three orders, the spirit and eloquence of Rienzi 
recommended him to a place among the thirteen deputies of 
the commons. The orator had the honor of haranguing pope 
Clement the Sixth, and the satisfaction of conversing with Pe- 
trarch, a congenial mind : but his aspiring hopes were chilled 
by disgrace and poverty ; and the patriot was reduced to a sin- 
gle garment, and the charity of the hospital. From this mise- 
ry he was relieved by the sense of merit or the smile of favor ; 
and the employment of apostolic notary afforded him a daily 
stipend of five gold florins, a more honorable and extensive 
connexion, and the right of contrasting, both in words and ac- 
tions, his own integrity with the vices of the state. The elo- 
quence of Rienzi was prompt and persuasive : the multitude is 
always prone to envy and censure : he was stimulated by the 
loss of a brother, and the impunity of the assassins ; nor was 
it possible to excuse or exaggerate the public calamities. The 
blessings of peace and justice, for which civil society has been 
instituted, were banished from Rome : the jealous citizens, 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 187 

who might have endured every personal or pecuniary injury, 
were most deeply wounded in the dishonor of their wives and 
daughters : they were equally oppressed by the arrogance of 
the nobles, and the corruption of the magistrates ; and the 
abuse of arms or of laws was the only circumstance that dis- 
tinguished the lions from the dogs and serpents of the capitol. 
These allegorical emblems were variously repeated in the pic- 
tures which Rienzi exhibited in the streets and churches ; and 
while the spectators gazed with curious wonder, the bold and 
ready orator unfolded the meaning, applied the satire, inflamed 
their passions, and announced a distant hope of comfort and de- 
liverance. The privileges of Rome, her eternal sovereignty 
over her princes and provinces, was the theme of his public 
and private discourse ; and a monument of servitude became in 
his hands a title and incentive of liberty. The decree of the 
senate, which granted the most ample prerogatives to the em- 
peror Vespasian, had been inscribed on a copperplate, still ex- 
tant in the choir of the church of St. John Lateran. A numer- 
ous assembly of nobles and plebeians was invited to this polit- 
ical lecture, and a convenient theater was erected for their re- 
ception. The notary appeared in a magnificent and mysteri- 
ous habit, explained the inscription by aversion and commenta- 
ry, and descanted with eloquence and zeal on the ancient glories 
of the senate and people, from whom all legal authority was 
derived. The supine ignorance of the nobles was incapable 
of discerning the serious tendency of such representations : 
they might sometimes chastise with words and blows the ple- 
beian reformer ; but he was often suffered in the Colonna pal- 
ace to amuse the company with his threats and predictions ; and 
the modern Brutus was concealed under the mask of folly and 
the character of a buffoon. While they indulged their con- 
tempt, the restoration of the good estate, his favorite expression, 
was entertained among the people as a desirable, a possible, 
and at length as an approaching event ; and while all had the 
disposition to applaud, some had the courage to assist their 
promised deliverer. 

A prophecy, or rather a summons, affixed on the church- 
door of St. George, was the first public evidence of his designs ; 
a nocturnal assembly of a hundred citizens on mount Aventine, 
the first step to their execution. After an oath of secrecv and 
aid, he represented to the conspirators the importance and facil- 
ity of their enterprise ; that the nobles, without union or resour- 
ces, were strong only in the fear of their imaginary strength ; 



188 young lady's reader. 

that all power, as well as right, was in the hands of the people; 
that the revenues of the apostolical chamber might relieve the 
public distress ; and that the pope himself would approve their 
victory over the common enemies of government and freedom. 
After securing a faithful band to protect his first declaration, he 
proclaimed through the city, by sound of trumpet, that on the 
evening of the following day all persons should assemble with- 
out arms, before the church of St. Angelo, to provide for the 
re-establishment of the good estate. The whole night was em- 
ployed in the celebration of thirty masses of the Holy Ghost; 
and in the morning, Rienzi, bareheaded, but in complete armor, 
issued from the church, encompassed by the hundred conspira- 
tors. The pope's vicar, the simple bishop of Orvieto, who 
had been persuaded to sustain a part in this singular ceremo- 
ny, marched on his right hand ; and three great standards were 
borne aloft as the emblems of their design. In the first, the 
banner of liberty, Rome was seated on two lions, with a palm 
in one hand, and a globe in the other : St. Paul, with a drawn 
sword, was delineated in the banner of justice ; and in the third, 
St. Peter held the keys of concord and peace. Rienzi was en- 
couraged by the presence and applause of an innumerable 
crowd, who understood little, and hoped much ; and the pro- 
cession slowly rolled forwards from the castle of St. Angelo to 
the capitol. His triumph was disturbed by some secret emo- 
tions which he labored to suppress : he ascended without op- 
position, and with seeming confidence, the citadel of the re- 
public, harangued the people from the balcony, and received 
the most flattering confirmation of his acts and laws. The 
nobles, as if destitute of arms and counsels, beheld in silent 
consternation this strange revolution ; and the moment had 
been prudently chosen, when the most formidable, Stephen 
Colonna, was absent from the city. On the first rumor, he 
returned to his palace, affected to despise this plebeian tumult, 
and declared to the messengers of Rienzi, that at his leisure he 
would cast the madman from the windows of the capitol. The 
great bell instantly rang an alarm, and so rapid was the tide, so 
urgent was the danger, that Colonna escaped with precipita- 
tion to the suburb of St. Laurence : from thence, after a mo- 
ment's refreshment, he continued the same speedy career till he 
reached in safety his castle of Palestrina ; lamenting his own 
imprudence, which had not trampled the spark of this mighty 
conflagration. A general and peremptory order was issued 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 189 

from the capitol to all the nobles, that they should peaceably 
retire to their estates : they obeyed ; and their departure se- 
cured the tranquility of the free and obedient citizens of Rome. 



DEATH OF ELIZABETH.— Hume. 

The earl of Essex, after his return from the fortunate expe- 
dition against Cadiz, observing the increase of the queen's fond 
attachment towards him, took occasion to regret, that the neces- 
sity of her service required him often to be absent from her 
person, and exposed him to all those ill offices which his ene- 
mies, more assiduous in their attendance, could employ against 
him. She was moved with this tender jealousy : and making 
him the present of a ring, desired him to keep that pledge of 
her affection, and assured him, that into whatever disgrace he 
should fall, whatever prejudices she might be induced to enter- 
tain against him, yet if he sent her that ring, she would imme- 
diately, upon sight of it, recall her former tenderness ; would 
afford him a patient hearing, and would lend a favorable ear to 
his apology. Essex, notwithstanding all his misfortunes, re- 
served this precious gift to the last extremity ; but, after his 
trial and condemnation, he resolved to try the experiment, and 
he committed the ring to the countess of Nottingham, whom he 
desired to deliver it to the queen. The countess was prevailed 
on by her husband, the mortal enemy of Essex, not to execute 
the commission ; and Elizabeth, who still expected that her 
favorite would make this last appeal to her tenderness, and who 
ascribed the neglect of it to his invincible obstinacy, was, after 
much delay, and many internal combats, pushed, by resent- 
ment and policy, to sign the warrant for his execution. The 
countess of Nottingham, falling into sickness, and affected with 
the near approach of death, was seized with remorse for her 
conduct; and having obtained a visit from the queen, she 
craved her pardon, and revealed to her the fatal secret. The 
queen, astonished with this incident, burst into a furious pas- 
sion : she shook the dying countess in her bed ; and crying to 
her, That God might pardon her, but she never could, — she 
broke from her, and thenceforth resigned herself over to the 
deepest and most incurable melancholy. She rejected all con- 
solation : she even refused food and sustenance : and, throwing 
herself on the floor, she remained sullen and immovable, feed- 



190 young lady's reader. 

ing her thoughts on her afflictions, and declaring life and exist- 
ence an insufferable burden to her. Few words she uttered ; 
and they were all expressive of some inward grief, which she 
cared not to reveal : but sighs and groans were the chief vent 
which she gave to her despondency, and which, though they 
discovered her sorrows, were never able to ease or assuage 
them. Ten days and nights she lay upon the carpet, leaning 
on cushions, which her maids brought her; and her physicians 
could not persuade her to allow herself to be put to bed, much 
less to make trial of any remedies which they prescribed to 
her. Her anxious mind, at last, had so long preyed upon her 
frail body, that her end was visibly approaching; and the coun- 
cil, being assembled, sent the keeper, admiral, and secretary, to 
know her will with regard to her successor. She answered 
with a faint voice, that she had held a regal scepter, she desired 
no other than a royal successor. Cecil requesting her to ex- 
plain herself more particularly, she subjoined, that she would 
have a king to succeed her : and who should that be, but her 
nearest kinsman, the king of Scots ! Being then advised, by 
the archbishop of Canterbury, to fix her thoughts upon God, 
she replied, that she did so, nor did her mind, in the least, wan- 
der from Him. Her voice, soon after, left her ; her senses 
failed ; she fell into a lethargic slumber, which continued some 
hours ; and she expired gently, without farther struggle or con- 
vulsion, in the seventieth year of her age, and forty-fifth of her 
reign. 

So dark a cloud overcast the evening of that day, which had 
shone out with a mighty luster in the eyes of all Europe, 
There are few great personages in history, who have been more 
exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adulation of 
friends, than queen Elizabeth ; and yet there scarcely is any 
whose reputation has been more certainly determined by the 
unanimous consent of posterity. The unusual length of her 
administration, and the strong features of her character, were 
able to overcome all prejudices ; and obliging her detractors to 
abate much of their invectives, and her admirers, somewhat of 
their panegyrics, have, at last, in spite of political factions, 
and, what is more, of religious animosities, produced a uni- 
form judgment with regard to her conduct. Her vigor, her 
constancy, her magnanimity, her penetration, vigilance, address, 
are allowed to merit the highest praises, and appear not to have 
been surpassed by any person that ever filled the throne : a 
conduct less rigorous, less imperious, more sincere, more in- 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 191 

diligent to her people, would have been requisite to form a per- 
fect character. By the force of her mind, she controlled all 
her more active and stronger qualities, and prevented them 
from running into excess : her heroism was exempt from te- 
merity, her frugality from avarice, her friendship from partial- 
ity, her active temper from turbulency and a vain ambition ; 
she guarded not herself with equal care or equal success, from 
lesser infirmities; the rivalship of beauty, the desire of admi- 
ration, the jealousy of love, and the sallies of anger. - 

Her singular talents for government were founded equally on 
her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great com- 
mand over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascend- 
ant over her people ; and while she merited all their esteem 
by her real virtues, she also engaged their affections by her 
pretended ones. Few sovereigns of England succeeded to the 
throne in more difficult circumstances ; and none ever conduct- 
ed the government with such uniform success and felicity. 
Though unacquainted with the practice of toleration, the true 
secret for managing religious factions, she preserved her peo- 
ple, by her superior prudence, from those confusions in which 
theological controversy had involved all the neighboring na- 
tions : and though her enemies were the most powerful princes 
of Europe, the most active, the most enterprising, the least 
scrupulous, she was able, by her vigor, to make deep impres- 
sions on their states: her own greatness, meanwhile, remained 
untouched and unimpaired. 

The wise ministers and brave warriors who flourished under 
her reign, share the praise of her success ; but, instead of less- 
ening the applause clue to her, they make great addition to it. 
They owed, all of them, their advancement to her choice ; 
they were supported by her constancy; and, with all their abil- 
ities, they were never able to acquire any undue ascendant over 
her. In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she remained 
equally mistress : the force of the tender passions was great 
over her, but the force of her mind was still superior : and the 
combat which her victory visibly cost her, serves only to dis- 
play the firmness of her resolution, and the loftiness of her am- 
bitious sentiments. 

The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the 
prejudices both of faction and bigotry, yet lies still exposed to 
another prejudice, which is more durable, because more natural, 
and which, according to the different views in which we survey 
her, is capable either of exalting beyond measure, or diminish- 



192 young lady's reader. 

ing the luster of her character. This prejudice is founded on 
the consideration of her sex. When we contemplate her as a 
woman, we are apt to be struck with the highest admiration of 
her great qualities and extensive capacity ; but we are also apt 
to require some more softness of disposition, some greater len- 
ity of temper, some of those amiable weaknesses, by which 
her sex is distinguished. But the true method of estimating 
her merit is, to lay aside all these considerations, and consider 
her merely as a rational being, placed in authority, and intrusted 
with the government of mankind. We may find it difficult to 
reconcile our fancy to her as a wife, or a mistress ; but her 
qualities as a sovereign, though with some considerable excep- 
tions, are the object of undisputed applause and approbation. 



ALEXANDER'S VISIT TO THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER.— 

Goldsmith. 

This temple was situated at a distance of twelve days jour- 
ney from Memphis, in the midst of the sandy deserts of Lybia, 
Alexander having read in Homer and other fabulous authors of 
antiquity, that most of the heroes were represented as the sons 
of some deity, was willing himself to pass for a hero, and 
knew that he could bribe the priests to compliment him, as of 
celestial origin. Setting out therefore along the river Mem- 
phis, and after having passed Canopus opposite the island of 
Pharos, he there laid the foundation of the city of Alexandria, 
which in a little time became one of the most flourishing towns 
for commerce in the world. From thence he had a journey of 
three hundred and forty miles to the temple of Jupiter ; the 
way leading through inhospitable deserts and plains of sand. 
The soldiers were patient enough for the two first days' march, 
before they arrived amidst the dreadful solitudes ; but as soon 
as they found themselves in vast plains, covered with sands of 
a prodigious depth, they were greatly terrified. Surrounded 
as with a sea, they gazed round as far as their sight could ex- 
tend, to discover, if possible, som^ place that was inhabited ; 
but all in vain, for they could not perceive so much as a single 
tree, nor the least footsteps of any land that had been cultivated. 
To increase their calamity, the water that they had brought in 
goat-skins, upon camels, now failed, and there was not so much 
as a single drop in all that sandy desert. They were, however, 



MEMOIRS. 193 

greatly refreshed by the accidental falling of a shower, which 
served to encourage them in their progress, till they came to 
the temple of the deity. Nothing can be more fanciful than 
the description the historians have given us of thjs gloomy 
retreat; it is represented as a small spot of fertile ground, in 
the midst of vast solitudes of sand ; it is covered with the 
thickest trees, that exclude the rays of the sun ; and watered 
with several springs, which preserved it in perpetual verdure ; 
near the grove where the temple stood, was the Fountain of the 
Sun, which at day-break was lukewarm, at noon cold, then 
towards evening insensibly grew warmer, and was boiling hot 
at midnight. The god worshipped in this place, had his statue 
made of emeralds and other precious stones ; and from the 
head to the navel resembled a ram. No sooner had Alexander 
appeared before the altar, than the high priest declared him to 
be the son of Jupiter ; the conqueror, quite intoxicated with 
adulation, asked, " Whether he should have success in his ex- 
pedition ;" the priest answered, " That he should be monarch 
of the world ;" the conqueror inquired, " If his father's mur- 
derers were punished ;" the priest replied, " That his father Ju- 
piter was immortal, but that the murderers of Philip had been 
all extirpated." 



MEMOIRS. 



SEMIRAMIS.— Mrs. Jameson. 

Semiramis, queen of Assyria, is the first female sovereign 
upon record who ever held undivided empire. All the accounts 
which have come down to us concerning this celebrated queen, 
are mixed up with so much exaggeration, absurdity, and my- 
thological fiction, that she may be considered partly a fabulous 
and partly an historical personage. As beheld through the 
long lapse of ages, and in the dim distance of primeval time, 
with all her gorgeous and Babylonish associations around her, 
Semiramis appears to our fancy rather as a colossal emblem 
of female sovereignty overshadowing the East, than as a real 
and distinct individual ; yet, that such a woman did once exist 
is more than probable, and her name has been repeated from 

17 



194 -young lady's reader. 

age to age, till it has become so illustrious, and her exploits 
and character so frequently alluded to in history, in poetry, 
and in the arts, that it is obviously necessary to be acquainted 
with the traditions respecting her; though quite unnecessary 
to give implicit credit to the relation of events resting on such 
vague, remote, and doubtful testimony, that, if it be difficult to 
believe, it is impossible to confute them. The time at which 
Semiramis lived is a matter of dispute ; and the authorities 
vary so extravagantly, that we are tempted to exclaim with 
Bryant, " What credit can possibly be given to the history of a 
person, the period of whose existence cannot be ascertained 
within 1500 years V Yet, so universal a celebrity must surely 
have had some foundation in truth. 

According to Rollin, Semiramis flourished about 1950 years 
before the Christian era ; that is, about 400 years after the flood, 
and nearly about the time of Abraham. Other chronologists, 
with far more probability, place her reign about 600 years later ; 
thus making her nearly contemporary with Gideon, judge of 
Israel, and Theseus, king of Athens. 

She was born at Ascalon, in Syria, and was the wife of Me- 
nones, one of the generals of Ninus, king of Assyria. At the 
siege of Bactria, whither she accompanied her husband, she 
distinguished herself by her prudence and courage, and through 
her sagacity the city was at length taken, after a protracted 
siege. She discovered a weak part in the fortifications, and 
led some soldiers up a by-path by night, by which means the 
walls were scaled, and the city entered. Ninus, struck with 
her wisdom and her charms, entreated her husband to resign 
Semiramis to him, offering his daughter, the princess Sosana, 
in exchange, and threatening to put out the eyes of the husband 
if he refused. Menones, seeing the king resolved on his pur- 
pose, and the lady in all probability nothing loth, and unable 
to determine between the alternatives presented to him, — the 
loss of his eyes, or the loss of his wife, — hung himself in a 
fit of jealousy and despair, and Ninus immediately after married 
his widow. Semiramis became the mother of a son named 
Ninias, and the king, dying soon afterward, bequeathed to her 
the government of his empire during the minority of his son. 
We have another version of this part of the story of Semiramis, 
which has afforded a fine subject for poets and satirists. It is 
recorded that Ninus, in the extravagance of his dotage, granted 
to his young and beautiful queen the absolute sovereignty of 
his empire for a single day. He seated her on his regal throne, 



MEMOIRS. 195 

placed his signet on her finger, commanded the officers of state 
and courtiers to do her homage, himself setting the first exam- 
ple, and her decrees during that brief space of time were to be 
considered absolute and irrevocable. Semiramis, with equal 
subtlety and audacity, instantly took advantage of her delegated 
power, and ordered her husband to be first imprisoned and then 
strangled, — a punishment which his folly would almost have 
deserved from any other hand. She declared herself his suc- 
cessor, and contrived to retain the supreme power during the 
remainder of her life. She was twenty years of age when she 
assumed the reins of empire, and resolved to immortalize her 
name by magnificent monuments and mighty enterprises. She 
is said to have founded the city of Babylon, or at least to have 
adorned it with such prodigious and splendid works that they 
ranked among the wonders of the world. When we read the 
accounts of the " Great Babylon," of its walls and brazen gates, 
its temples, bridges, and hanging gardens, we should be inclined 
to treat the whole as a magnificent fiction of poetry, if the stu- 
pendous monuments of human art and labor, still remaining in 
India and Upper Egypt, did not render credible the most ex- 
travagant of these descriptions, and prove on what a gigantic 
scale the ancients worked for immortality. We are also told, 
that among the edifices erected by her, was a mausoleum to the 
memory of the king, her husband, adjoining the great tower of 
Babel, and adorned with statues of massive gold. When Se- 
miramis had completed the adornment of her capital by the 
most wonderful works of art, she undertook a progress through 
her vast empire, and every where left behind her glorious me- 
morials of her power and her benevolence. It seems to have 
been an article of faith among all the writers of antiquity, that 
Assyria had never been so great and so prosperous as under 
the dominion of this extraordinary woman. She built enor- 
mous aqueducts, connected the various cities by roads and 
causeways, in the construction of which she leveled hills and 
filled up valleys ; and she was careful, like the imperial con- 
queror of modern times, to inscribe her name and the praises 
of her own munificence on all these monuments of her great- 
ness. In one of these inscriptions she gives her own geneal- 
ogy, in a long list of celestial progenitors ; which shows that, 
like some other monarchs of the antique time, she had the 
weakness to disown herplebian origin, and wished to lay claim 
to a divine and fictitious parentage. 



196 young lady's reader. 

"My father was Jupiter Belus; 

My grandfather, Babylonian Saturn; 

My great-grandfather, Ethiopian Saturn; 

My great-grandfather's father, Egyptian Saturn; 

And my great-grandfather's grandfather, 

Phoenix Coelus Ogyges." 

After reading this high sounding catalogue of grandfathers 
and great-grandfathers, it is amusing to recollect that Semira- 
mis has left posterity in some doubt whether she herself ever 
had a real existence, and may not be, after all, as imaginary a 
personage as any of her shadowy, heaven-sprung ancestors. 

There is another of the inscriptions of Semiramis, which is 
in a much finer spirit. 

i 
" Nature bestowed on me the form of a woman; my actions have sur- 
passed those of the most valiant of men. I ruled the empire of Ninus, 
which stretched eastward as far as the river Hyhanam, southward to the 
land of incense and of myrrh, and northward to the country of the 
Scythians and the Sogdians. Before me no Assyrian had seen the great 
sea. I beheld with my own eyes four seas, and their shores acknowledged 
my power. I constrained the mighty rivers to flow according to my will, 
and I led their waters to fertilize lands that had been before barren and 
without inhabitants. I raised impregnable towers; I constructed paved 
roads in ways hitherto untrodden but by the beasts of the forest; and 
in the midst of these mighty works I found time for pleasure and for 
friendship." 

We are told that Semiramis was extremely active and vigi- 
lant in the administration of her affairs. One morning, as she 
was dressing, information was brought to her that a rebellion 
had broken out in the city ; she immediately rushed forth, half- 
attired, her hair floating in disorder, appeased the tumultuous 
populace by her presence and her eloquence, and then returned 
to finish her toilette. 

Not satisfied with being the foundress of mighty cities, and 
sovereign over the greatest empire of the earth, Semiramis was 
ambitious of military renown. She subdued the Medes, the 
Persians, the Lybians, and the Ethiopians, and afterward de- 
termined to invade India. She is the first monarch on record 
who penetrated beyond the Indus, for the expedition of Bacchus 
is evidently fabulous. The amount of her army appears to us 
absolutely incredible. She is said to have assembled three 
millions of foot soldiers and five hundred thousand cavalry ; 
and as the strength of the Indians consisted principally in the 
number of their elephants, she caused many thousand camels 



MEMOIRS. 197 

to be disguised and caparisoned like elephants of war, in hopes 
of deceiving and terrifying the enemy by this stratagem. An- 
other historian informs us, that she constructed machines in the 
shape of elephants, and that these machines were moved by 
some mechanical contrivance, which was worked by a single 
man in the interior of each. The Indian king, or chief, whose 
name was Stabrobates, hearing of the stupendous armament 
which was moving against him, sent an ambassador to Semira- 
mis, demanding who and what she was ? and why, without any 
provocation, she was come to invade his dominions ? To these 
very reasonable inquiries the Assyrian queen haughtily replied, 
" Go to your king, and tell him I will myself inform him who 
I am, and why I am come hither." Then, rushing onwards at 
the head of her swarming battalions, she passed the river Indus 
in spite of all opposition, and advanced far into the country, the 
people flying before her unresisting, and apparently vanquished. 
But having thus insidiously led her on till she was surrounded 
by hostile lands, and beyond the reach of assistance from her 
own dominions, the Indian monarch suddenly attacked her, 
overwhelmed her mock elephants by the power and weight of 
his real ones, and completely routed her troops, who fled in all 
directions. The queen herself was wounded, and only saved 
by the swiftness of her Arabian steed, which bore her across 
the Indus ; and she returned to her kingdom with scarce a third 
of her vast army. We are not informed whether the disasters 
of this war cured Semiramis of her passion for military glory ; 
and all the researches of antiquarians have not enabled us to 
distinguish the vague and poetical from the true, or at least the 
probable events in the remainder of her story. We have no 
account of the state of manners and morals during her reign ; 
and of the progress of civilization we can only judge by the 
great works imputed to her. Among the various accounts of 
her death, the following is the most probable : — An oracle had 
foretold that Semiramis should reign until her son Ninias con- 
spired against her ; and after her return from her Indian expe- 
dition she discovered that Ninias had been plotting her destruc- 
tion. She immediately called to mind the words of the oracle, 
and, without attempting to resist his designs, abdicated the 
throne at once, and retired from the world; or, according to 
others, she was put to death by her son, after a reign of forty- 
two years. The Assyrians paid her divine honors under the 
form of a pigeon. 

17* 



198 



BIOGRAPHY. 



BRAINARD.— Whittiek. 

There is a feeling of reverence associated with our reminis- 
cences of departed worth and genius. It is too holy and deep 
for outward manifestation. It hovers closely around the heart, 
sweeping in secret the fine and hidden chords of our better 
sympathies. In contemplating the character of the subject of 
this sketch, I feel, in no ordinary degree, the peculiar delicacy 
of the task I have undertaken. It is like lifting the shroud 
from the still face of the dead, that the living may admire its 
yet lingering loveliness. I almost feel as if I were writing in 
the presence of the disembodied spirit of the departed ; — as if 
the eye of his modest and unpretending genius were following 
the pen which traces his brief history. 

John Gardiner Calkins Brainard, was born at New London, 
Connecticut, in October, 1796. He was the son of the late 
Hon. Jeremiah G. Brainard, formerly a judge of the Superior 
Court in that State. His preparatory studies were under the 
direction of his elder brother, who is at this time a highly res- 
pectable member of the Connecticut bar. He entered Yale 
College at the age of fifteen ; — and soon gave evidence of the 
possession of a superior gift of intellect. His genius was not 
of that startling nature, which blazes out suddenly from the 
chaos of an unformed character, dazzling with its unexpected 
brilliance. It developed itself gradually and quietly. It was 
perceptible to others even before its possessor seemed con- 
scious of its influence. Never intrusive, and always shrink- 
ing from competition, it called forth an admiration which had 
no alloy of envy. There was a modesty in the manifestations 
of his genius, — a disinterestedness, at times almost approach- 
ing carelessness, which forbade the suspicion of rivalship, and 
which discovered no inclination to contend for those honors 
which all felt were within his grasp. 

During his residence at Yale College, he was a universal 
favorite. Although, even at that early period, something of the 
sadness which clouded his after life, occasionally gathered 
around him, he had all the cheerfulness of a happy child in the 



BIOGRAPHY. 199 

society of his friends. His smile was ever ready to greet their 
good-humored sallies; and he had, in turn, his own peculiar 
faculty of awaking mirthful and pleasant emotions. In his 
gayer moments of social intercourse, the drollery of his man- 
ner — the singularity in the mode of his expression, and in the 
association of his ideas, — something of which is perceptible in 
his lighter poems, — rendered his society peculiarly fascinating. 
His wit seldom took a personal direction. It played lightly 
over the easy current of his conversation, — brilliant — spark- 
ling — but perfectly harmless. 

He was not a hard student. He wanted in a great degree, 
even the common stimulus of ambition. He had no desire to 
triumph over his fellows. He was contented with his own re- 
tirement of thought. His purposes of life, too, were shadowy, 
undefined, and mutable. He had, consequently, no given point 
upon which to direct the powers of his mind. The rays were 
scattered carelessly abroad, which should have been concentra- 
ted upon one bright and burning focus. * * * 

The originality and spirit of his poetical writings soon at- 
tracted attention. His pieces were extensively copied, and, 
not unfrequently, with high encomium. The voice of praise is 
always sweet, but doubly so when it falls for the first time upon 
a youthful ear. But Brainard was one of those who " bear 
their faculties meekly." Although publishing, week after week, 
poems which would have done honor to the genius of Burns 
and Wordsworth, he never publicly betrayed any symptoms of 
vanity. He held on the quiet and even tenor of his way, appar- 
ently regardless of that prodigality of intellectual beauty which 
blossomed around him. With but a moiety of his powers, 
more ardent and aspiring spirits would have striven mightily 
for the sunshine of applause. Brainard sought the shade. 
The fine current of his mind, like the ' sacred river' of the 
Kubla Khan, " meandered with an easy motion," in the silence 
and the coolness of abstracted thought, far below the noisy and 
heated atmosphere of the world. Its music was for himself 
alone. He caved not that the great world should hear it. It 
was like that hidden brooklet which Coleridge speaks of, — 

: To the sleeping woods all night 



Singing a quiet tune"- 

a stream, it is true, which burst forth occasionally into the live 
sunshine, like the flow of molten diamonds, but which seemed 
to murmur sweeter, where it caught its glimpses of blue sky 



200 young lady's reader. 

and sailing cloud, through the dim vistas of the shaded 
solitude. * * * * 

It is very probable that lassitude and bodily debility may 
have been the prominent cause of the inactivity of Brainard, 
even after the general voice had pronounced him capable of 
" marking the age with his name." Fame may " minister to a 
mind diseased;" but it cannot re-fill the exhausted fountains of 
existence ; and that for which health and happiness have been 
sacrificed, may prove at last a mockery — like "delicates poured 
upon the mouth shut up, or as meats set upon a grave." 

In the spring of 1827, his health, which had for some time 
been failing, admonished him to seek its restoration by means of 
a temporary release from the duties of his profession. He re- 
turned to the quiet of his birth-place. There, all was affection 
and sympathy ; and for these his sick spirit had longed, " even 
as the servant earnestly desireth the shadow." His illness 
soon assumed the fearful character of a decided consumption. 

During the summer he spent a short time on Long Island. 
While here he composed that beautiful and touching sketch, 
" The Invalid on the East end of Long Island," which cannot 
but be admired for its touching pathos, and exquisite descrip- 
tion. It is remarkable, as the only piece in which his sickness 
is alluded to. He did not wish to turn the public eye upon 
himself. He was contented with the sympathy and affection- 
ate kindness of his intimate friends. In the loneliness of his 
sick chamber these were worth more to him than the plaudits 
of a world. 

He never returned to Hartford. The slow but certain pro- 
gress of disease, compelled him to resign into other hands the 
editorial department of his paper. Notwithstanding the cir- 
cumstances under which it was written, his brief and pertinent 
valedictory is buoyant with the author's characteristic cheer- 
fulness. 

He wrote, while at New London, several short poems which 
were published in the Mirror. These bear no evidence of that 
depression which so generally accompanies a lingering illness. 
They are fanciful and brilliant — indicating a clear and health- 
ful mental vision, unaffected by the circumstance of physical 
decay. 

To most minds there is something terrible in. the steady and 
awful decline of the powers of nature, — the gradual loosening 
of the silver cord of existence. It is in truth a fearful thing 
to perish slowly in the very spring of existence, — to feel day 



BIOGRAPHY. 201 

after day, our hold on life less certain, — to look out upon nature 
with an eye and a spirit capable of realizing its beauty, and yet 
to feel that to us it is forbidden, — to be conscious of deep affec- 
tions and tender sympathies, and yet to know that these must 
perish in our own bosoms, unshared and solitary, — to feel the 
fever of ambition, without the power to satisfy its thirst, — and, 
ourselves dark and despairing, to " look into happiness through 
the eyes of others." But Brainard was happy in the hour of 
sickness and the failing of his strength. Death for him had 
few terrors. — Young as he was he had learned to turn aside 
from the world, — to live in it without leaning upon it. His 
were the consolations of that religion whose inheritance is not 
of this world. While in health — in the widest range of his 
fancy — in the purest play of his humor, he had never indulged 
in- irreverence or profanity, for there was always a deep under- 
current of religious feeling, tempering the lighter elements of 
his disposition. He had, moreover, made himself thoroughly 
acquainted with the great truths of Christianity, by a long and 
careful study of the sacred volume. And when, to use his own 
language, he turned 

" Away from all that's bright and beautiful — 
To the sick pillow and the feverish bed," 

the pure and sustaining influence of that peace which is " not 
such as the world giveth," was around him, " like the shadow 
of a great rock in a weary land." There is a refining process 
in sickness. The human spirit is purified and made better by 
the ordeal of affliction. The perishing body is strongly con- 
trasted with its living guest — the one sinking into ruins — the 
other ' secure in its existence,' and strong in its imperishable 
essence. It may be that, according to the poet, 

" The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, 

Still lets in light through chinks which time "has made," 

and that when the pleasures and varieties of the world are 
stealing away forever — when the frail foothold of existence is 
washing rapidly away — like the disciple of the Egyptian priest- 
hood, who, in ascending the mystic ladder of the temple of 
Iris, was compelled to grasp the round above him, while the 
one beneath him was crumbling in pieces — the human spirit is 
led upward by the very insufficiency of its earthly support, un- 
til at last it takes hold on heaven. In the hour of health and 
high enjoyment, a thousand images of earthly beauty rise be- 



202 young lady's reader. 

tween us and the better land. It is only when those " which 
look out at the window are darkened" that the full glory of the 
beatific vision is realized. It is in the shadow, and not in the 
bright sunshine, that the eye looks farthest into the blue myste- 
ries above us. 



MAGLIABE C HI.— D 'Israeli. 

Anthony Magliabechi, who died at the age of eighty, was 
celebrated for his great knowledge of books. He has been 
called the Helluo, or the Glutton of Literature, as Peter Come- 
stor received this nick-name from his amazing voracity for 
food he could never digest ; which appeared when having fall- 
en sick of so much false learning, he threw it all up in his 
' Sea of Histories? which proved to be the history of all things, 
and a bad history of every thing. Magliabechi's character is 
singular ; for though his life was wholly passed in libraries, 
being librarian to the duke of Tuscany, he never wrote himself. 
There is a medal which represents him sitting, with a book in 
one hand, and with a great number of books scattered on the 
ground. The candid inscription signifies, that ' it is not suffi- 
cient to become learned to have read much, if we read without 
reflection.' This is the only remains we have of his own com- 
position that can be of service to posterity. A simple truth, 
which may however be inscribed in the study of every man of 
letters. 

His habits of life were uniform. Ever among his books, he 
troubled himself with no other concern whatever ; and the only 
interest he appeared to take for any living thing was his spiders ; 
for whom, while sitting among his literary piles, he affected 
great sympathy ; and perhaps contemptuously, to those whose 
curiosity appeared impertinent, he frequently cried out, ' to take 
care not to hurt his spiders !' Although he lost no time in 
writing himself, he gave considerable assistance to authors who 
consulted him. He was himself an universal index to all au- 
thors. He had one book among many others, dedicated to 
him, and this dedication consisted of a collection of titles of 
works which he had had at different times dedicated to him, 
with all the eulogiums addressed to him in prose and verse. — 
When he died, he left his vast collection of books for the pub- 
lic use ; they now compose the public library of Florence. 



BIOGRAPHY. • 203 

Heyman, a celebrated Dutch professor, visited this- erudite 
librarian, who was considered as the ornament of Florence. — 
He found him amongst his books, of which the number was 
prodigious. Two or three rooms in the first story were crowd- 
ed with them, not only along their sides, but piled in heaps on 
the floor; so that it was difficult to sit, and more so to walk. — 
A narrow space was contrived, indeed, so that by walking 
sideways, you might extricate yourself from one room to an- 
other. This was not all ; the passage below stairs was full 
of books, and the staircase from the top to the bottom was lined 
with them. When you reached the second story, you saw 
with astonishment three rooms, similar to those below, equally 
full, so crowded, that two good beds in these chambers were 
also crammed with books. 

This apparent confusion did not, however, hinder Magliabe- 
chi from immediately finding the books he wanted. He knew 
them all so well, that even to the least of them it was sufficient 
to see its outside, to say what it was ; and indeed he read them 
day and night, and never lost sight of any. He eat on his 
books, he slept on his books, and quitted them as rarely as 
possible. During his whole life he only went twice from Flo- 
rence ; once to see Fiesoli, which is not above two leagues dis- 
tant, and once ten miles further by order of the Grand Duke. — 
Nothing could be more simple than his mode of life ; a few 
eggs, a little bread, and some water, were his ordinary food. — 
A drawer of his desk being open, Mr. Heyman saw there seve- 
ral eggs, and some money which Magliabechi had placed there 
for his daily use. But as this drawer was generally open, it 
frequently happened that the servants of his friends, or stran- 
gers who came to see him, pilfered some of these things ; the 
money or the eggs. 

His dress was as cynical as his repasts. A black doublet, 
which descended to his knees ; large and long breeches ; an 
old patched black cloak ; an amorphous hat, very much worn, 
and the edges ragged ; a large neckcloth of coarse cloth, be- 
grimed with snuff; a dirty shirt, which he always wore as 
long as it lasted, and which the broken elbows of his doublet 
did not conceal ; and, to finish this inventory, a pair of ruffles 
which did not belong to the shirt. Such was the brilliant dress 
of our learned Florentine ; and in such did he appear in the 
public streets, as well as in his own house. Let me not forget 
another circumstance ; to warm his hands, he generally had a 
stove with fire fastened to his arms, so that his clothes were 



204 young lady's reader. 

generally singed and burnt, and his hands scorched. He had 
nothing otherwise remarkable about him. To literary men he 
was extremely affable, and a cynic only to the eye ; anecdotes 
almost incredible are related of his memory. It is somewhat 
uncommon that as he was so fond of literary food, he did not 
occasionally dress some dishes of his own invention, or at 
least some sandwiches to his own relish. He indeed should 
have written Curiosities of Literature. He was a' living cy- 
clopedia, though a dark lantern. 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 



ANNINGAIT AND AJUT.— Johnson. 

In one of the large caves to which the families of Green- 
land retire together, to pass the cold months, and which may 
be termed their villages or cities, a youth and maid, who came 
from different parts of the country, were so much distinguished 
for their beauty, that they were called by die rest of the inhab- 
itants, Anningait and Ajut, from a supposed resemblance to 
their ancestors of the same names, who had been transformed 
of old into the sun and moon. 

Anningait for some time heard the praises of Ajut with little 
emotion, but at last, by frequent interviews, became sensible of 
her charms, and first made a discovery of his affection, by in- 
viting her with her parents to a feast, where he placed before 
Ajut the tail of a whale. Ajut seemed not much delighted by 
this gallantry; yet, however, from that time, was observed 
rarely to appear but in a vest made of the skin of a white deer ; 
she used frequently to renew the black dye upon her hands and 
forehead, to adorn her sleeves with coral and shells, and to 
braid her hair with great exactness. 

The elegance of her dress, and the judicious disposition of 
her ornaments, had such an effect upon Anningait, that he could 
no longer be restrained from a declaration of his love. He 
therefore composed a poem in her praise, in which, among 
other heroic and tender sentiments, he protested, that " she was 
beautiful as the vernal willow, and fragrant as thyme upon the 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 205 

mountains ; that her fingers were white as the teeth of the 
morse, and her smile grateful as the dissolution of the ice ; 
that he would pursue her, though she should pass the snows of 
the midland cliffs, or seek shelter in the caves of the eastern 
cannibals ; that he would tear her from the embraces of the 
genius of the rocks, snatch her from the paws of Amarock, and 
rescue her from the ravine of Hafgufa." He concluded with 
a wish, that " whoever should attempt to hinder his union with 
Ajut, might be buried without his bow, and that, in the land of 
souls, his skull might serve for no other use than to catch the 
droppings of the starry lamps." 

This ode being universally applauded, it was expected that 
Ajut would soon yield to such fervor and accomplishments : 
but Ajut, with the natural haughtiness of beauty, expected all 
the forms of courtship; and before she would confess herself 
conquered, the sun returned, the ice broke, and the season of 
labor called all to their employments. 

Anningait and Ajut for a time always went out in the same 
boat, and divided whatever was caught. Anningait, in the 
sight* of his mistress, lost no opportunity of signalizing his 
courage ; he attacked the sea-horses on the ice, pursued the 
seals into the water, and leaped upon the back of the whale 
while he was yet struggling with the remains of life. Nor was 
his diligence less, to accumulate all that could be necessary to 
make winter comfortable ; he dried the roe of fishes and the 
flesh of seals ; he entrapped deer and foxes, and dressed their 
skins to aclorn his bride ; he feasted her with eggs from the 
rocks, and strewed her tent with flowers. 

It happened that a tempest drove the fish to a distant part of 
the coast before Anningait had completed his store ; he there- 
fore entreated Ajut, that she would at last grant him her hand, 
and accompany him to that part of the country whither he was 
now summoned by necessity. Ajut thought him not yet entitled 
to such condescension, but proposed, as a trial of his constan- 
cy, that he should return at the end of summer to the cavern 
where their acquaintance commenced, and there expect the re- 
ward of his assiduities. " O, virgin, beautiful as the sun shi- 
ning on the water, consider," said Anningait, " what thou hast 
required. How easily may my return be precluded by a sud- 
den frost or unexpected fogs! Then must the night be past 
without my Ajut. We live not, my fair, in those fabled coun- 
tries, which lying strangers so wantonly describe ; where the 
whole year is divided into short days and nights ; where the 

18 



206 young lady's header. 

same habitation serves for summer and winter; where they 
raise houses in rows above the ground, dwell together from 
year to year, with flocks of tame animals grazing in the fields 
about them ; can travel at any time from one place to another, 
through ways inclosed with trees, or over walls raised upon the 
inland waters ; and direct their course through wide countries 
by the sight of green hills or scattered buildings. Even in 
summer, we have no means of crossing the mountains, whose 
snows are never dissolved; nor can remove to any distant resi- 
dence, but in our boats coasting the bays. Consider, Ajut ; a 
few summer-days, and a few winter-nights, and the life of man 
is at an end. Night is the time of ease and festivity, of revels 
and gaiety; but what will be the flaming lamp, the delicious 
seal, or the soft oil, without the smile of Ajut V 

The eloquence of Anningait was vain ; the maid continued 
inexorable, and they parted with ardent promises to meet again 
before the night of winter. 

Anningait, however discomposed by the dilatory coyness of 
Ajut, was yet resolved to omit no tokens of amorous respect ; 
and therefore presented her at his departure, with the skms of 
seven white fawns, of five swans, and eleven seals, with three 
marble lamps, ten vessels of seal oil, and a large kettle of 
brass, which he had purchased from a ship, at the price of half 
a whale, and two horns of sea unicorns. 

Ajut was so much affected by the fondness of her lover, or 
so much overpowered by his magnificence, that she followed 
him to the sea-side ; and when she saw him enter the boat, 
wished aloud that he might return with plenty of skins and oil ; 
that neither the mermaids might snatch him into the deeps, nor 
the spirits of the rocks confine him in their caverns. 

She stood a while to gaze upon the departing vessel, and 
then returning to her hut, silent and dejected, laid aside, from 
that hour, her white deer-skin, suffered her hair to spread un- 
braided on her shoulders, and forbore to mix in the dances of 
the maidens. She endeavored to divert her thoughts by con- 
tinual application to feminine employments, gathered moss for 
the winter lamps, and dried grass to line the boots of Annin- 
gait. Of the skins which he had bestowed upon her, she 
made a fishing-coat, a small boat, and tent, all of exquisite 
manufacture : and, while she was thus busied, solaced her la- 
bors with a song, in which she prayed, " that her lover might 
have hands stronger than the paws of the bear, and feet swifter 
than the feet of the rein-deer ; that his dart might never err, 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 207 

and that his boat might never leak; that he might never stum- 
ble ou the ice, nor faint in the water ; that the seal might rush 
on his harpoon, and the wounded whale might clash the waves 
in vain." 

The large boats in which the Greenlanders transport their 
families, are always rowed by women ; for a man will not de- 
base himself by work which requires neither skill nor courage. 
Anningait was therefore exposed by idleness to the ravages of 
passion. He went thrice to the stern of the boat, with an in- 
tent to leap into the water, and swim back to his mistress ; but, 
recollecting the misery which they must endure in the winter, 
without oil for the lamp, or skins for the bed, he resolved to em- 
ploy the weeks of absence in provision for a night of plenty 
and felicity. He then composed his emotions as he could, and 
expressed in wild numbers and uncouth images, his hopes, his 
sorrows, and his fears. " O, life!" says he, " frail and uncer- 
tain ! where shall wretched man find thy resemblance but in 
ice floating on the ocean? It towers on high, it sparkles from 
afar, while the storms drive and the waters beat it, the sun melts 
it above, and the rocks shatter it below. What art thou, de- 
ceitful pleasure ! but a sudden blaze streaming from the north, 
which plays a moment on the eye, mocks the traveler with the 
hopes of light, and then vanishes for ever? What, love, art 
thou, but a whirlpool, which we approach without knowledge of 
our danger, drawn on by imperceptible degrees, till we have lost 
all power of resistance and escape ? Till I fixed my eyes on 
the graces of Ajut, while I had not yet called her to the ban- 
quet, I was careless as the sleeping morse, I was merry as the 
singers in the stars. Why, Ajut, did I gaze upon thy graces ? 
why, my fair, did I call thee to the banquet? Yet, be faithful, 
my love, remember Anningait, and meet my return with the 
smile of virginity. I will chase the deer, I will subdue the 
whale, resistless as the frost of darkness, and unwearied as the 
summer sun. In a few weeks 1 shall return prosperous and 
wealthy ; then shall the roefish and the porpoise feast thy kin- 
dred ; the fox and hare shall cover thy couch ; the tough hide 
of the seal shall shelter thee from cold ; and the fat of the 
whale illuminate thy dwelling." 

Anningait having with these sentiments consoled his grief, 
and animated his industry, found that they had now coasted the 
headland, and saw the whales spouting at a distance. He there- 
fore placed himself in his fishing-boat, called his associates to 
their several employments, plied his oar and harpoon, with in- 
credible courage and dexterity ; and, by dividing his time be- 



208 young lady's reader. 

tween the chase and fishery, suspended the miseries of ab- 
sence and suspicion. 

Ajut, in the mean time, notwithstanding her neglected dress, 
happened, as she was drying some skins in the sun, to catch 
the eye of Norngsuk, on his return from hunting. Norngsuk 
was of birth truly illustrious. His mother had died in child- 
birth, and his father, the most expert fisher of Greenland, had 
perished by too close pursuit of the whale. His dignity was 
equalled by his riches ; he was master of four men's and two 
women's boats, had ninety tubs of oil in his winter habitation, 
and five-and-twenty seals buried in the snow against the sea- 
son of darkness. When he saw the beauty of Ajut, he imme- 
diately threw over her the skin of a deer that he had taken, 
and soon after presented her with a branch of coral. Ajut re- 
fused his gifts, and determined to admit no lover in the place of 
Anningait. 

Norngsuk, thus rejected, had recourse to stratagem. He 
knew that Ajut would consult an angekkok, or diviner, concern- 
ing the fate of her lover and the felicity of her future life. He 
therefore applied himself to the most celebrated angekkok of 
that part of the country, and, by a present of two seals and a 
marble kettle, obtained a promise that, when Ajut should con- 
sult him, he would declare that her lover was in the land of 
souls. Ajut, in a short time, brought him a coat made by her- 
self, and inquired what events were to befall her, with assuran- 
ces of a much larger reward at the return of Anningait, if the 
prediction should flatter her desires. The angekkok knew the 
way to riches, and foretold that Anningait, having already 
caught two whales, would soon return home with a large boat 
laden with provisions. 

This prognostication she was ordered to keep secret ; and 
Norngsuk, depending upon his artifice, renewed his addresses 
with greater confidence ; but, finding his suit still unsuccessful, 
applied himself to her parents with gifts and promises. The 
wealth of Greenland is too powerful for the virtue of a Green- 
lander ; they forgot the merit and the presents of Anningait, 
and decreed Ajut to the embraces of Norngsuk. She entreat- 
ed ; she remonstrated ; she wept and raved ; but finding riches 
irresistible, fled away into the uplands, and lived in a cave upon 
such berries as she could gather, and the birds or hares which 
she had the fortune to ensnare, taking care, at an hour when 
she was not likely to be found, to view the sea every day, that 
her lover might not miss her at his return. 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 209 

At last she saw the great boat in which Anningait had de- 
parted, stealing slow and heavy-laden along the coast. She 
ran with all the impatience of affection, to catch her lover in 
her arms, and relate her constancy and sufferings. When the 
company reached land, they informed her, that Anningait, after 
the fishery was ended, being unable to support the slow passage 
of the vessel of carriage, had set out before them in his fishing- 
boat, and they expected at their arrival to have found him on 
shore. 

Ajut, distracted at this intelligence, was about to fly into the 
hills, without knowing why, though she was now in the hands 
of her parents, who forced her back to their own hut, and en- 
deavored to comfort her : but when at last they retired to rest, 
Ajut went down to the beach, where, finding a fishing-boat, she 
entered it without hesitation, and, telling those who wondered 
at her rashness, that she was going in search of Anningait, 
rowed away with great swiftness, and was seen no more. 

The fate of these lovers gave occasion to various fictions and 
conjectures. Some are of opinion that they were changed 
into stars ; others imagine that Anningait was seized in his 
passage by the genius of the rocks ; and that Ajut was trans- 
formed into a mermaid, and still continues to seek her lover in 
the deserts of the sea. But the general persuasion is, that they 
are both in that part of the land of souls where the sun never 
sets, where oil is always fresh, and provisions always warm. 
The virgins sometimes throw a thimble and a needle into the 
bay from which the hapless maid departed ; and when a Green- 
lander would praise any couple for virtuous affection, he de- 
clares that they love like Anningait and Ajut. 



THE WITCH.— Anon. 

It is a very common observation, but not the less true on that 
account, that no advantage is fully prized except by the want 
of it. Our fair countrywomen, who are now instructed in eve- 
ry branch of education, can with difficulty realize the ignorance 
of their female ancestors, with whom to read and write was 
considered learning enough to have made a modern blue-stock- 
ing. It must be confessed, that, even now, a woman gifted with 
any uncommon literary acquirements, falls under the displeas- 
ure of the well dressed illiterate dandies of the day ; but their 

18* 



210 young lady's reader. 

jurisdiction is a harmless one, and seldom extends beyond a 
shrug, or the opprobrious epithet of blue. But this was not the 
case in 1669. Then, female literature excited serious suspi- 
cion, and was taken under the cognizance of that memorable 
and never-to-be-forgotten synod of pious, enlightened worthies, 
who would fain have condemned all the ugly old women and 
all the intelligent young ones, to be hanged or drowned as 
witches. 

It was the misfortune of Ann Jones to be born at this period. 
She lived at New Haven, and, when a child, discovered a re- 
markable faculty of learning. She could string rhymes togeth- 
er, as children of quick and playful imaginations are wont to 
do. Ann's father died before her genius had developed itself 
beyond any other indication of great powers than imitating the 
language of every animal she heard. This early habit gave 
her, no doubt, a flexibility of organs. In the present day a 
young lady may have the gift of half a dozen tongues, and a 
more accurate knowledge of all than her own, without exciting 
wonder ; but it must be remembered that Ann flourished nearly 
two centuries ago. Her mother was a good hearted, honest, 
respectable woman, and early discovered that she had brought 
a prodigy into the world. This discovery mothers are daily 
making now, and prodigies have so much multiplied, that no- 
body is surprised to find the youngest or the oldest child a com- 
plete wonder. The mother was constantly relating instances 
of the extraordinary talents of her child, and, among other 
things, affirmed, before a number of people who were afterwards 
summoned as witnesses against the girl, that she could say her 
letters before she could speak; which, if the woman had not 
explained her meaning by stating that she could pick them out 
of the alphabet before she could articulate, was certainly enough 
to have hung her for a witch in any court of justice. 

A Dutch family removed from New Amsterdam to New Ha- 
ven. Formerly the people of New Amsterdam had designated 
the inhabitants of New Haven as ' squatters,' and now the term 
was thrown back on the respectable and ancient family of Von 
Poffenburghs, who, though they purchased every inch of land 
they occupied, were, most unjustly, by way of contempt, called 
squatters. Some say that nothing serious was meant by this 
appellation, and that it was only in derision of the superabund- 
ance of petticoats that were worn by vrowe Von Poffenburgh, 
which, when she seated herself, gave her an appearance to 
which the above injurious term might be applied. They built 
a low house with slanting roof and gable ends, and though it 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 211 

might show meanly by the side of our city houses, was then 
considered one of' exceeding costliness.' 

It must be confessed, that the goede vrowe discovered a little 
more pride in dress than was congenial to the simplicity of the 
times. It was said she never walked out with less than ten 
petticoats, and as confidently asserted she could bring ten more 
to cover them. And then her jewelry was of the most extrav- 
agant kind. She wore her pin-ball and scissors dangling at 
her side by a massy silver chain, and her square buckles con- 
tained more silver than any other lady's in the colony. The 
shortness of her petticoats excited much indignation among the 
New England dames. They said there would have been some 
excuse had economy been the object, but it was evident what 
was taken from the length was put on to the breadth. They 
therefore very candidly concluded, that their brevity was contri- 
ved to show off a pair of red stockings with gold clocks, well 
fitted to ankles that did not discredit the epithet of Dutch built. 

Unfortunately for poor Ann, the vrowe took a great fancy to 
her, and said she was the very image of her little Dirk Von 
Poffenburgh, who died when he was a baby. Nothing would 
do but Ann must have a set of petticoats, and she actually rigged 
out the poor girl with buckles as big as her own. Some said 
they were silver, and others that they were only pewter, and 
scoured every week with the plates and porringers. At any 
rate she did enough to draw the hatred and envy of the whole 
village upon her. 

It is no wonder that Ann, who could imitate the language of 
dumb beasts, should catch the vrowe's. It was surely pleas- 
anter to make human sounds than to baa-a like sheep, or moo-o 
like cows. In a very short time she could speak Dutch as 
well as mynheer himself. All this at first had no other conse- 
quence than exciting envy and ill will ; but, not content with 
two tongues, Ann contrived to exercise a third. She spoke 
strange, unknown words, that even the Dutch people confessed 
they could not understand themselves. About this time the 
witches began their gambols in New England, and one of the 
strongest evidences against them was speaking in an unknown 
tongue. Ann began to be looked upon with an evil eye. It 
was not, however, till a young man by the name of Hall be- 
came strangely affected, that the whole village grew alarmed. 
It was said that she had so bewitched him by her arts and in- 
fernal charms, that he could do nothing but follow her about like 
a Jack-o'lantem. It was generally agreed that he used to be a 
steady, business-like young man, but since he had known her 



212 young lady's reader. 

he had neglected all work, and would saunter whole nights un- 
der her window. This was bad enough ; but when other young 
men began to show symptoms of the same kind, it was time to 
look into the matter. There were some strong arguments used 
by the more intelligent and candid, against her being an actual 
witch. It was said by every one who had deeply studied the 
subject, that the ' abominable and damnable sin' of witchcraft 
was wholly confined to ugly old women, whose faces were 
wrinkled by time, whose joints were distorted by rheumatism, 
and whose steps were tottering from debility. Now it could 
not be denied that Ann was fair to look upon, her complexion 
as smooth as marble, and her step as firm and elastic as that 
of a mountain deer. Possibly these favorable circumstances 
might have acquitted her in the eyes of the venerable magis- 
trates and divines of Salem ; but they did not at all meliorate 
the feelings of the mothers and daughters at New Haven, who 
sat in judgment upon poor Ann. They unanimously pronoun- 
ced that she was a sorceress, and that her beauty was nothing 
but a mask, and if it were stripped off, she would be ugly and 
old enough to excite the indignation of any magistrate in New 
England, or even Cotton Mather himself. At any rate the ef- 
fect she produced began to excite serious alarm. 

At this time there lived at New Haven a very excellent, good 
hearted woman, by the name of Eyers. She had heard all 
these stories of Ann, and not being a full believer in witches, 
had a laudable curiosity to behold one. Accordingly she sent 
for her to come and see her ; when, strange to say, after a few 
hours conversation, she became apparently under the influence 
of her spells, and used to invite her to make long visits at her 
house. 

It could not be expected that things would be suffered to go 
on in this way, and, accordingly, a warrant was issued for ap- 
prehending Ann Jones, accused of the ' abominable and damna- 
ble sin of witchcraft. ' She was arrested and thrown into pri- 
son. But as the judges were not so expert and so much prac- 
tised in finding out witches as in Salem, and as nobody appear- 
ed against her but a few girls of her own age, and half a dozen 
children who said she had come to them under the shape of a 
black cat, the magistrates were unwise enough to dismiss her. 
This acquittal, however, did not release Ann from suspicion. — 
It grew stronger than ever. She had always from her child- 
hood loved to wander over hills and valleys. She was healthy 
and robust, and never hesitated to take her walks because the 
wind blew, or the sky lowered. With her little red cloak wrap- 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 213 

ped round her, and her gay and happy face peeping from the 
hood, she braved every element. As she grew older she still 
preserved her taste for rambling, and, as she could now go no- 
where without observation, her favorite haunts were soon dis- 
covered. It was said she was often seen vibrating on a broom- 
stick in the air, between East and West Rocks, and alighting 
alternately on each ; and that, though the latter was a perpen- 
dicular cliff, rising three hundred feet, she would run up that, 
or the side of a house with the greatest ease. It was also said, 
that she was once seen standing on the top of this tremendous 
rock, and that somebody fired at her and she sunk down into 
the earth. It was supposed she was laid for one while, when, 
to their horror, they saw her a few hours afterwards looking as 
bright and as happy as ever. Wherever she walked she found 
her path impeded by broomsticks and horse-shoes, and, though 
she skipped over them good humoredly, it was confidently as- 
serted that she was always stopped by their infallible power. 

About this time, new accounts arrived of the ' wonder work- 
ing providence of God in detecting the witches in various parts 
of New England.' It was thought by many people a disgrace 
to New Haven that it had not signalized itself in this business, 
and Ann was more closely inspected than ever. At length it 
was actually discovered, that she was often met by a mysterious 
looking personage, who shuffled along as if he had a cloven 
foot, and some averred that they had positively seen it. It was 
easy now to account for her strange languages. There could 
be no doubt but this mysterious being was Beelzebub himself, 
and there were various conjectures upon the nature of their con- 
nexion. Some supposed she had made a league with him and 
signed the bond with her blood ; that he had supplied her with 
her buckles, and was finally to be rewarded with her immortal 
soul. Others supposed she was his wife, and coadjutor with 
him. It was not, however, till some months after she had 
been seen with this mysterious personage, that the worst suspi- 
cions were realized. Mrs. Eyers' kitchen was situated on the 
street. The windows were low and it was an edifying sight to 
look into them. The dressers and shelves were garnished with 
bright pewter plates, standing on their edges, and peeping 
through rows of tin sauce pans, dippers, and skimmers, that 
hung suspended from the shelves, while a shining brass warm- 
ing pan and chafing dish garnished the wainscot. A woman 
happening to pass by, cast her eye with a little maidenly curi- 
osity into the kitchen, and beheld Ann Jones sitting there and 
conversing with her demon ! The alarm was immediately giv- 



214 young lady's reader. 

en, and Mrs. Eyers, who happened to be visiting in the neigh- 
borhood, was one of the first to hear the horrible story. It may 
well be supposed that she was in great agitation, and immedi- 
ately hastened home, but, before she arrived, people had collec- 
ted and surrounded the house. Mrs. Eyers immediately pro- 
posed, that all the outside shutters should be closed, the door 
fastened and the key holes stopped, lest Ann and her familiar 
should escape. This was done with the greatest expedition 
by some, while others went for a warrant to apprehend the 
girl. It was said that some were absurd enough to suppose 
that even Beelzebub might be laid fast hold of and brought to 
trial. Strict watch was kept upon the roof and the chimnies, 
for it was thought an easy thing for them to escape in this 
clandestine manner. At length the warrant arrived. Expec- 
tation and curiosity were wound up to their highest pitch, the 
door was carefully opened, when, to the horror and astonish- 
ment of everybody present, not a living soul was to be seen! — 
The strictest investigation was made ; they searched in every 
corner and every closet ; up chimney and down cellar ; no tra- 
ces could be found, and, it was clear, Beelzebub had claimed 
his wife ! 

Months and years passed away, and nothing was heard of 
Ann Jones. Her mother could not endure the disgrace of hav- 
ing such a son-in-law, and very soon after this discovery dis- 
appeared from New Haven. Mrs. Eyers never could be pre- 
vailed on to mention her name, and young Hall, who had been 
Ann's fast friend, removed to a distant part of the country. 

It was not till many years after, that a worthy clergyman 
was traveling in Vermont, and made inquiries for a Mrs. Hall, 
for whom he had a letter. When he was introduced to her he 
was struck by former recollections. 

1 You don't know me V said she, smiling. 

' Not exactly,' he replied, ' and yet I think I have seen you 
before. ' 

' You don't remember the little witch, Ann Jones V said she. 

' Indeed I do,' he exclaimed, starting up and taking her hand, 
' and T have now a letter for you from our worthy friend Mrs. 
Eyers,' 

' I had a hard time of it,' replied Ann, £ at New Haven. You 
know how long I was accused as a sorceress, because my hus- 
band there, chose to fall in love with me and conduct himself 
as if he was bewitched ; and then, too, because an excellent 
friend taught me Latin, and I had the wit to catch a little smat- 
tering of Dutch, I was supposed to be possessed of an evil 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 215 

Spirit. But the good people were not so much to blame as they 
might appear,' continued she, ' and I freely forgive them their 
persecution ; for it must be confessed there were some suspi- 
cious appearances.' 

' So I have understood,' said the clergyman, gravely. 

' You did not know, then,' said she, ' that I was employed as 
an agent by Mrs. Eyers, and our good minister, Mr. Davenport, 
to carry food to a poor man who lived in a cave on West Rock V 

' No,' replied the gentleman, ' nor how you escaped from 
your persecutors.' 

'It is a simple story,' said she, 'marvellous as it seems. — 
Mrs. Eyers had a closet made behind one of the pannels of her 
kitchen, so exactly fitted and covered with kitchen utensils that 
no one ever suspected it was there. With this secure retreat 
in case of danger, the poor gentleman could sometimes quit his 
cave and live like a christian, and, in return for my services, he 
taught me many useful branches of knowledge. When the 
alarm was given and the shutters closed, we retreated to the 
closet and escaped discovery. But my friends began to think 
it was best for me to quit New Haven before I was hung or 
drowned, and so,' added she, ' I came to this spot with my hus- 
band. My mother joined me, and here we have lived for fifteen 
years. I have a healthy family of children, and keep up a 
constant correspondence with Mrs. Eyers, who has never 
ceased to show me kindness for the little service I did her 
friend.' 

' May I ask,' said the clergyman, ' who was the gentleman 
you so essentially served ?' 

' You may,' said she, ' for he has now gone to his account. 
He is beyond the reach of friends or enemies. He sleeps 
under the clod of the valley. It was Goffe, the regicide judge. 



THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN UNLUCKY WIT.— Mrs.Traill. 

A woman had better be born with no more brains than a goose, 
than be heiress to that dangerous possession — wit. In the 
former case she is sure, soon or late, to find some honest gan- 
der for her mate, and, perhaps, some good uncle or aunt to 
make his or her will in her favor ; but in the latter she is des- 
tined to die an old maid, and cut herself out of the good graces 
of all her friends and relations, by the sharpness of her tongue. 



216 young lady's reader. 

Having suffered all my life from the ill effects of this mis- 
chievous propensity, I would, from motives of pure philanthro- 
py to the rising generation, entreat — advise — admonish, and 
implore all guardians of the young of my own sex, mothers, 
aunts, and governesses, to check, crush, and exterminate all 
tendency to mimicry, satire, repartee, sauciness, smartness, 
quickness ; in short, all lively sallies that may grow up to form 
what is usually termed a witty woman. Let their young 
charges be dunces — the veriest pieces of affectation that ever 
minced steps at a dancing-master's ball. Let them be pedants 
— stuff their poor brains with astronomy, geology, conchology, 
entomology, — but let them not be wits — and, above all, do not 
let them imagine themselves possessed, in any way, of this 
most offensive weapon ; for, ten to one, they will make fools of 
themselves through life. 

While I was yet in my cradle, my mother discovered an un- 
usual precocity about me, and a love of the ridiculous, which 
made me laugh ten times more than any of her other children 
had done at the same age ; nay, she even attributed a certain 
comical cast that was perceptible in one eye during my child- 
hood, to the droll way in which I used to squint up at nurse's 
high-crowned cap, which was at least half-a-foot higher than 
that of any old dame's in the village. I always thought it was 
turning that eye in an oblique direction to watch the movements 
of the pap-spoon, which, 1 shrewdly suspect, oftener visited the 
old woman's lips than the open mouth of her hungry, squalling 
nursling. 

By the time I was three years old I was the veriest imp of 
mischief that ever lived ; unfortunately, my freaks were laugh- 
ed at, all my smart speeches duly repeated by a fond and fool- 
ish mother, and when I deserved to be whipped, I was forgiven 
on the score that I was so clever, and such a wit. Now I 
verily believe, half what is called wit in a child is folly, and if 
timely discouraged, the world would be spared much trouble in 
chastising, mortifying, and disinheriting grown up culprits of 
this description. 

At four or five I could mimic the voice, tone, gait, and man- 
ner of every one I saw — even a comical face in a picture-book 
was a study for me, and once I amused myself at a lady's house, 
where my mother had left me to spend the day, by molding my 
little face into an exact resemblance of the brass lion's head on 
the handle of the bell-pull, to the great amusement of all the 
company. For one frolic I got a sound box on the ear from my 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 217 

father — (it is a source of regret to me I have so few of those 
valuable salutations to record.) 

Our landlord was a stiff old major, who wore a single- 
breasted coat, flapped waistcoat, a three-cocked hat, and a 
big curled wig. At his quarterly visitations not a syllable must 
be spoken, but, ranged on our four-legged mahogany stools, my 
sisters and myself must sit as mute as mice, not a giggle must 
be heard, not a whisper, while politics (I remember it was Pitt 
and Fox time,) were discussed between my father and the old 
major. 

Oh, it was dullness of the most refined order, to keep our 
tongues still, our hands in our lap, and our ears open. 

I had somehow managed to secrete the clean-picked drum- 
stick of a goose from the dinner-table one Michaelmas-day, 
to make what we called an apple-scoop. Well, I looked at my 
dry bone, and I glanced at the wig. The major was in the act 
of describing a chevaux-de-frise — I thought what an admirable 
one I could make of his wig. Unseen, unheard, I cracked my 
bone into a hundred splinters, and, favored in my retreat from 
the circle by my quietly mischievous companions, I succeeded 
in sticking the wig as full of the white shivers of the goose- 
bone as I have since seen a sponge-cake soaked in wine and 
custard, (called a hedgehog,) stuck full of blanched almonds. 

Imagine the grave, withered, crab-apple face of the major, 
and then think of the wig and its adornments — he wore, besides, 
a pigtail coming from beneath the wig. 1 was just putting the 
coup de grace to his appearance, by fastening a long bit of rag- 
to the end of this appendage — it was too much for the risible 
organs of my sisters — a universal burst of laughter took place 
— it was like the bursting of a long pent-up volcano — it rolled 
on in spite of the awful frown of my father, and the agitated 
look of the poor major, who was only partly unconscious of the 
ridiculous figure he cut. I shall never forget the scene, or 
the suppressed expression of mirth thrit gleamed and twinkled 
in my poor father's eyes, as he assisted to recompose the ruffled 
wig, (no easy matter,) and, in a thundering voice, demanded 
who had played the trick. 

" I was only making a chevaux-de-frise," I said, trying to 
laugh. 

A thundering box on the ear, sent me reeling to the further 
end of the room ; given, I verily believe, more out of respect 
to the feelings of the offended major, than from genuine dis- 
pleasure against the culprit — but it would not do — the dignity 
19 



218 young lady's reader. 

of the old soldier was mortally wounded ; he never entered the 
house again, to the great mortification of my mother, who 
counted his few formal visits a great honor, and was wont to 
boast of the major as one of her grand acquaintance. 

My next freak was a more fatal one to my own interests, as, 
by an unlucky speech, I made an implacable enemy of a mai- 
den aunt who occasionally visited our house, sometimes in 
company with a younger sister. Aunt Martha seldom inflicted 
her society on us for less than a month at a time, to the infinite 
regret of every member of the household, from the tom-cat up 
to my honored father. 

Aunt Martha was a tall, lean, sour-faced woman of thirty- 
two ; her nose had a sort of pinch at the top, which was very 
red, and her cheeks were somewhat of the color of a red cab- 
bage, only wrinkled a little more after the manner of a savoy- 
leaf; moreover, to complete the pleasantness of her physiog- 
nomy, she wore what was then in fashion, a cropped head, call- 
ed a " Brutus ;" no wonder that 1 should draw an unfavorable 
comparison between her young, pretty, good-natured, lively 
sisler and herself — the latter I called my pretty aunt, by way 
of distinction. 

One day a coach stopped at the door — one of my aunts was 
expected — I eagerly ran to peep through the banisters of the 
hall-stairs, half-dressed as I was, and in no very low tone, ask- 
ed if it were my " pretty aunt, or my ugly aunt that had come '?" 
A withering glance from aunt Martha, as she hastily brushed 
past me on the stair-case, proved she had heard the question ; 
she curled up her little red nose, and looked ten times uglier 
than ever. She never forgot nor forgave the insult — nay, she 
carried it to her grave, for in her last will and testament, the 
unlucky speech was recorded against me, as a sufficient reason 
for cutting me out of her will. Younger sisters and brothers, 
tom-cats, parrots, and cousins to the eight remove, being 
sharers of her wealth, to the exclusion of poor me, though I 
had been scolded, starved, whipped, and lectured into obedience 
to her aunty authority, till she had not, outwardly, a more duti- 
ful niece in the whole list of brother's and sister's brats, than 
myself. 

Experience should have taught me wisdom, but a very small 
portion of that valuable acquirement fell to my share. 

It was my misfortune to be the god-daughter of a proud, 
mean, vain old woman, some very, very distant relation of my 
father's, who graciously condescended to bestow upon me her 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 219 

own beautiful name, " Deborah Anne," — horrible compound ! — 
and when I had attained the mature age of sixteen, she benev- 
olently signified her intention of taking me by the hand, and in- 
troducing me into company. In other words, 1 was to be her 
companion, alias, white slave, and if, on the supposition that I 
might in time become her heiress, I had the good fortune to 
marry some wretched old bachelor, ancient widower, or sickly 
dandy of family, I was to bless for ever the goodness and gen- 
erosity of Mrs. Deborah Anne Pike. 

In the meantime, till such eligible connexion could be form- 
ed, I must favor, flatter, and attend to the whims and caprices of 
my patroness and worthy godmamma ; fill the important place 
of ladies' maid and milliner, butler and house-keeper, amuse 
morning visiters, play the amiable to evening ones, play back- 
gammon till my head was bewildered by the rattling of the dice- 
box, or pursue the monotonous draughtsmen across the board, 
till the white chickens looked black, and the black white ; and, 
of a rainy day, play billiards or bagatelle. 

Our mornings were passed in solitary dullness, till the car- 
riage was at the door to take us our daily round of calls on peo- 
ple as dull as ourselves ; from five till six the business of the 
toilet occupied our time, and I was expected to attend to ad- 
mire a face that even rouge could not improve, and a figure that 
resembled two boards bound together. 

"Hum — ha — how do you like me now, Miss, that I have 
beautified a little ?" was generally the closing speech, as she 
cast a satisfied glance at her withered charms in the old japan- 
ned dressing-glass. 

Once I gave mortal offense, by carelessly replying to " How 
do I look now ?" " Much as you generally do, madam." 

She was wont to make four things her boast: that she had 
never threaded a needle, or set a stitch since she married the 
dear old general that was departed ; never read any other news- 
paper than the John Bull, nor any books but the old Bath Guide 
and her prayer-book ; never omitted taking an advantage at 
whist, nor gave more than a penny to a beggar at a time. 

The first month was intolerable. In it I had given offense to 
one old beau and two danglers, and expressed my intention of 
pleasing myself in the choice of a husband — a glaring piece of 
folly, and ridiculous assertion of my independence, that could 
not be tolerated. The next — but happily my tongue for once 
did me a worthy service, and set me free from my worse than 
Egyptian bondage, before the second month was out. 



220 young lady's reader. * 

The old lady used to pester me to admire the beauty of a 
faded green stuffed parrot that stood in an old-fashioned, hide- 
ous case, among Chinese mandarins, cups and saucers of old 
Dresden china, and other odd knick-knacks that filled up an 
ancient Dutch cabinet. 

One day I unluckily was tempted to say, " I suppose, mad- 
am, you starved the parrot whilst it was alive, and stuffed it 
after it was dead." I said it playfully and in joke, but an awful 
cloud gathered on the offended lady's brow — silence ensued for 
a moment ; then came a torrent of rebukes, and reproaches, 
and invectives. I apologized — it was only said in joke. 
Joke ! — to joke with a person of her wealth — her dignity — and 
I, a poor country curate's daughter, that she had taken from ob- 
scurity and beggary, to make something of. This was too 
much — the pride of all my race rose up to my aid, and 1 re- 
torted. The carriage was ordered to the door, and the old wo- 
man flung into it, commanding me to go to my room and pack 
my trunk. Next morning I was duly installed on an outside 
place on the mail — and — the right owners got me by six the 
same evening. The same mail brought a letter, the essence of 
spite, from my amiable relative, which, after dwelling on the 
heinousness of my enormities, concluded with these emphatic 
words : — 

"Miss was too independent, and too great a wit for her sta- 
tion ; humility had become the daughter of a poor curate bet- 
ter, and might have been rewarded with not less than £3,000." 

I lost the chance of this fine fortune, but I did not lose my 
detestable name, for the infliction of which I was never remu- 
nerated ; but I gained what was inexpressibly dearer to me than 
ever it had been before — my liberty. Nay, even to this hour, 
though something old, and poor, and single withal, I cannot 
help congratulating myself on my miraculous escape, convin- 
ced as I am, that had I remained the abject dependant of my 
rich relative, I should have been left, after a life of slavery, 
with no better recompense than a broken spirit and an empty 
purse ; the too frequent reward of a rich old woman's com- 
panion. 

I was a little tamed for a while after I came home, but by de- 
grees all my old propensities returned, and I now became worse 
than ever. I quizzed all my acquaintance, laughed at the old 
beaux and bachelors of our village, teased the young ones, rid- 
iculed my female friends, with the exception of one or two 
whom I made my companions ; these aped my fashions and 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 221 

manners, and repeated all my sayings. In short, I considered 
myself as a star among them. 

So sharp was my wit at last, that few dare enter the lists to 
answer me, and if I happened to be in one of my brilliant hu- 
mors, no one was safe from my raillery. I could not endure to 
pass by an opportunity of displaying my talent — friend or foe, 
young or old, were alike exposed to my sarcasm. 

I had nick-names for all my acquaintance, and prided myself 
on their significance, though now I am inclined to think the 
practice is vulgar, illiberal, and foolish to a degree, besides 
being excessively ill-natured. In more than one instance I had 
the mortification of finding these names had reached the ears 
of the only persons they were not intended for, and that they 
gave much offense. 

The surgeon and apothecary of our village, a huge bachelor, 
with large, unmeaning, glassy eyes, and whiskers of no com- 
mon size, with an extensive practice, a new white stuccoed 
dwelling, with vinery and green-house at the end of the village, 
a stud of horses, and a kennel full of wretched cur dogs, was 
held in great esteem by the single ladies of the neighborhood, 
and their mammas, who did not fail to say the doctor would be 
a good catch for some one. One old maid, who had set her 
cap indefatigably at the good man during the space of eight 
whole weary years, was pleased to be very jealous of some 
attention he paid me at a race-ball, and in an audible whisper 
she said, stretching her scraggy neck across so as partially to 
eclipse the poor doctor : 

" If Mr. L makes you an offer, I would advise you to 

snap .'" 

I coolly thanked her for her advice, but said — " I was not 
quite in so great a hurry to snap (as she elegantly expressed 
it,) as she might be." The doctor laughed, and the scraggy 
lady withdrew her cresent-shaped face in evident wrath. 

For some time the doctor was looked upon almost as my de- 
clared lover, but I happened to hear that he should say, if I had 
come in for my share of aunt Martha's legacy, or had been the 
certain heiress of Mrs. D. A.. Pike, he might have been induced 
to offer his hand, his house, his vinery, his horses and dogs to 
me, for I was very clever and a dashing sort of a girl, though, 
'pon honor, rather too sharp for him. I was incensed at his 
mercenary conduct, and resolved to revenge myself in some 
way. As to my mother, she excused his foible, and hoped for 
the best, and my sisters still thought something might yet be 

19* 



222 young lady's reader. 

done to bring him on, if I would but be a little meek, and not 
tease his dogs, and talk very affectionately of my rich god- 
mother. 

But the doctor's dogs were my aversion, a set of wretched 
living skeletons, that followed yelping at his heels, scratching 
and whining at his patients' doors like fiends of ill omen. 

The oft-repeated proverb of " love me, love my dog," which 
he never failed to repeat with a tender squeeze of my hand, and 
a languishing stare from his gooseberry orbs, failed to win my 
admiration. One might have managed to tolerate one dog, but 
the doctor had six, though to be sure the whole half-dozen would 
not have made one respectable sized lady's spaniel. I called 
these miserable beasts the doctor's patients — himself the " man 
of pills" and the" gooseberry-eyed monster," while his assist- 
ant, the elegant, dandified Mr. C , was the " stork" — he was 

six feet three inches, and slender to a degree — both were ex- 
travagantly proud of their perfections, and, though on the forti- 
fied side of thirty, the doctor was quite as vain as the youthful 
Adonis, his companion. 

It was Valentine's day. I was resolved to revenge myself 
for the slighting manner in which, of late, the man of pills had 
treated me, and I dashed off a caricature, in which my quon- 
dam admirer, with huge bear's whiskers, and eyes as big as 
saucers, was in the act of drawing an old woman's tooth ; his 
huge frame ridiculously contrasted with a crowd of half starved 
— not patients — but puppies of all sorts and sizes. Over the 
surgery door, in legible characters, was written teeth dis- 
tracted here. The center figure was an admirable likeness 
of Mr. C. mounted on a stork's legs, and with a bird's head ; 
on the bill was inscribed pills, draughts, powders, &c, with an' 
enormous sum-total added up. The resemblances were excel- 
lent ; in spite of the incongruous appearanco of the unhappy 
doctor and his assistant, every one that saw the group, recogni- 
zed the originals with shouts of laughter. 

" Oh do let them have it," " Pray send it, they will never find 
out," " It is so clever, they can't suspect," cried several of my 
best friends ; and go it did, to be returned, not by the postman, 
but by the dignified, offended object of my satire, Mr. L — . 

One of my treacherous bosom friends had betrayed me, for 
the sake of ingratiating herself in the doctor's favor. I was 
mortified, vexed, ashamed ; forced to apologize ; but all to no 
purpose. As I grew meek, the doctor grew more spiteful, and 
ended with telling me I should soon become an ill-natured, 



FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE. 223 

satirical, sour old maid. I lost my admirer, and had the morti- 
fication of seeing my treacherous acquaintance become mistress 
of the stuccoed house, vinery, &c, and flaunt past me at church, 
in a pink satin hat and feathers, with the six dogs prancing be- 
fore and behind her. 

After this adventure, I received an invitation to stay at ■ 
Hall, with the aunt of Sir Charles S — . He was an elegant, 
sentimental young baronet ; just recalled from his continental 
tour, by the death of his father. T had been ill, and was a lit- 
tle tamed by my misfortunes. Sir Charles was interested in 
me ; was delighted with my singing, my drawing — I had been 
making sketches of the Hall, its old chapel, and the romantic- 
scenes of his native village. I was proud, pleased, gratified 
at his praise. I began to indulge in visions of future bliss, to 
feel that I was not indifferent to the young baronet ; I felt I 
could love him. Matters were in this train, when Sir Charles, 
one morning, announced his intention of taking his aunt and 

me to a race-ball, at . 

His good aunt presented me with a beautiful gauze and satin 
dress. I had never seen myself full-dressed, in such style. I 
was elated by my good looks. I should appear to advantage in 
the eyes of Sir Charles ; my conquest would be complete ; he 
had never seen me well-dressed, or in spirits. Sir Charles was 
a London-bred man. I must lay aside my country manners, 
and show him what 1 could be. I was all animation and gaiety, 
full of repartee and lively sallies. I did not notice at first that 
as my spirits increased, so in proportion did Sir Charles become 
silent, abstracted, and grave. I rallied him at last, teased, 
quizzed ; he looked displeased, and said little. I was blind to 
my danger, and when we reached the ball-room, I flirted with 
the officer to whom I was introduced as a partner, with the 
hope of raising my lover's jealousy ; but it would not do. I 
became reckless ; pride would not allow me to notice Sir 
Charles' coldness and neglect. I exerted all my powers of 
wit to fascinate and charm. I heard my words repeated with 
admiration on all sides ; but one voice alone was mute. 

Sir Charles hated a spirited woman ; a wit or female satirist 
was his detestation ; he admired the soft, the gentle, the silent, 
the unaffected, simple country girl, more than the fashionable 
belle esprit. 

As we entered the supper room, I heard him say to his aunt, 
" I am disappointed, disgusted by her conduct, much as I ad- 
mired her. I would not now make her my wife for all the 



224 young lady's reader. 

world ! J abhor a witty woman !" I heard no more ; my head 
whirled ; I turned sick, giddy and faint. 

Sir Charles never renewed his attentions, but left the Hall 
soon after ; I saw him no more. Disappointed and grieved at 
my folly, I left a spot where I had been only too happy, to mourn 
over hopes that my unfortunate propensity had blighted. 

And now, on the verge of fifty, I find myself with a narrow 
income, shunned and feared by a limited circle of acquaintance, 
that unfortunate person, a poor satirical old maid. The only 
reparation I can make to society, is by publishing this short 
memoir, as a warning example to my sex to shun that too com- 
mon error, a sarcastic temper, and flee from the reputation of 
being thought a wit. 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY- 



LOSS OF BEAUTY.— Mrs. Gilmapj. 

For many days I saw not the face of my dear Arthur. I 
retired with mamma while the physicians dressed his wounds, 
and returned again to sit by his side. Gradually he began to 
utter words, and called my name. I wept with joy at the 
blessed sound ; then one poor hand could press mine faintly, 
and bear the soft language 1 reciprocated. Slowly the light 
was admitted, and I saw him ; but — oh, my heart — how chang- 
ed ! The beauty of which 1 was so proud was gone! The 
rich hair no longer lay on his noble brow ; and that brow, once 
so serene, was furrowed by deeper lines than age or sorrow 
can engrave. I should not have known him ! God forgive me, 
but 1 thought him hideous. I felt my blood curdle, and my 
head swim with an indefinite terror. The poor sufferer did not 
heed me, for his eyes were closed to the light. I thought my 
heart would have burst, and rushed to my own apartment. I 
traversed it with rapid steps ; I crushed my hands upon my 
bosom to stop its beatings, and pressed my forehead to the 
wainscot to cool its burnings. I stamped in a kind of vindic- 
tive wrath, and uttered words of impious fury. I think 1 was 
going mad, but I grew faint ; slow tears came to me ; I was 
not left to blaspheme ; I was softened ; they fell like rain, and 
my spiritual triumph prevailed. 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 225 

What, I thought, is this perishing clay to an immortal 1 His 
frail beauty would at best have lasted but a few years. Who 
knows but. I should have loved too fondly those dark eyes, 
whose intellectual brightness struggled with their mellow ten- 
derness ; that mouth, chiseled to the most perfect turn of manly 
symmetry ? My poor Arthur! I have sometimes feared that 
your grasping intellect and exquisite person united, placed you 
too much above me, that I must worship you like a bright, dis- 
tant star ; it is not so now. I shall not fear to lay your ach- 
ing head against my heart, to smooth the lingering curl on your 
fevered brow, and call you mine only. 

With these thoughts I kneeled in prayer. Earth seemed a 
vain thing to me ; duty and christian hope my birthright. 

" Arthur," said I, cheerfully, as I sat by his bedside a week 
after, with his hand in mine, parting the scanty hair on his 
scarred forehead, " you are not aware how much you are alter- 
ed by this sad accident. You asked yesterday for a glass, you 
must be prepared for a change." 

He started, hesitated a moment, and said, in a low tone, " I 
feared this. Can you endure me?" 

" If I had loved your beauty only," I replied, " I might not 
have borne its loss so well as I do ; but while God spares your 
intellect and heart, I have still enough to be proud of." 

He looked thoughtful, and said, " Is it really come to this ? 
1 have had fearful suspicions -of it." His hand shook in mine 
with sudden tremor. " I have frequently desired to introduce 
the subject," he continued, mournfully, " but had not courage. 
You are not aware that vanity has been my besetting sin. I 
can recollect the earliest praise of my beauty. I remember la- 
dies taking me in their arms when I was a child, and bestow- 
ing on me extravagant expressions of endearment and praise; 
I remember my power over young girls, who flattered me with 
their eyes, when their lips were too modest to speak ; my quick 
ear has caught voices in public, even of rude boys in the street, 
pronouncing me beautiful ; and, yes, I will confess all, I have 
lingered over my own miniature with a kind of idol-worship. 
I struggled with this weakness, and thought it mastered ; God's 
will be done if this dispensation is sent to punish me." 

" Not to punish you, Arthur," said I, fondly, as I perceived 
the nervous irritability of his feelings, " but it may be to try 
you, to perfect you, and to reveal to you my true love, which 
asks for nothing in return but yours. Oh, if you knew the 
warm and brooding tenderness that has settled on my heart 



226 young lady's reader. 

since your misfortune, you too would say, it is enough for me, 
it is worth more than external charms can buy." 

Arthur improved in his appearance and health. I kept the 
mirror from him, telling him that every day diminished his dis- 
figurement ; and he cheerfully assented to my wishes, while 
his mind appeared to be regaining its tone. 

" You will be almost what you were, dear Arthur," I said to 
him one day when he began to despond ; " indeed, I forget that 
you are not the same. Judge me by yourself, would you look 
at me with less of true love's preference, if I were to be altered 
by misfortune ?" 

He shuddered, and exclaimed, "Do not mention it ; I can- 
not bear to think of it." (I repeat his language, not with van- 
ity, but to show his intense love of what he thought beautiful. ) 
" Let me gaze on you ;" and he fixed his melancholy eyes full 
on mine, " lest some awful power should change you. So long 
as those fringed orbs beam in their speaking sweetness ; so 
long as I can trace the rose-tints on your cheeks, and the deep 
brilliancy of your lips ; while your braided hair lies thus in its 
glossy folds ; while these soft hands are white as sun-tinged 
ivory ; while your step glides around me, and I can catch the 
fine proportions of your modest form ; while your voice falls in 
sweet modulations on my ears, stirring up love's echoes, J. will 
bear God's dispensations on myself; but, pray, pray that they 
may stop before they reach you." 

Arthur was at length able to walk a few steps, though in 
great weakness, about his apartment. In my earnestness to 
assist him one day, I forgot that he might approach the look- 
ing-glass ; he did so inadvertently, glanced at himself, exclaim- 
ed, "My God!" and fell senseless. 

He was removed to his bed, requested his room to be dark- 
ened and the curtains drawn around it, while, without repulsing 
my attentions, he seemed to prefer communing with himself in 
silence. I saw that a violent struggle was going on, rendered 
more overwhelming by his physical weakness. This lasted 
some days. 

" Cornelia," said he to me at length, in a tone of bitterness, 
" I intended to have surprised you with a gift from my poor 
Ellen — a likeness of Arthur Marion ; do you remember him ? 
Look in my writing-desk and bring it to me. " 

T. went and presented it with a trembling hand, not daring to 
glance at it. He told me to open a shutter ; I did, and the 
bright light burst in on the miniature and on him. 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 227 

" Come here," said he, sternly; " come and look." I obey- 
ed ; the likeness was perfect. The girl who dreams of Endy- 
mion never pictured anything more beautiful. I glanced at 
Arthur's face, it was disfigured with conflicting passions. I 
perceived that this was his last great trial, and braced myself 
for the result. He sat up in the bed, to which he had been con- 
fined since his fall, gazed long and earnestly on the picture, 
then, clinching it with upraised arm, dashed it against the ceil- 
ing. He watched it as it was shivered to atoms ; then, draw- 
ing the bed-clothes over his face, wept and sobbed aloud. 

I kneeled beside him, clasped his hands in mine, laid my 
head on his pillow, and moaned as a mother with her suffering 
child. I prayed to God to comfort him, and the prayer was 
accepted. It was his last great struggle, and he rose from it 
like a man and a christian. 



CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.— Mad. de Stael. 

Oswald walked the streets of Rome, awaiting the arrival of 
Corinne : he heard her named at every instant ; every one re- 
lated some new trait, proving that she united all the talents 
most captivating to the imagination. One asserted that her 
voice was the most touching in Italy ; another, that, in tragic 
acting, she had no peer : a third, that she danced like a nymph, 
and drew with equal grace and invention : all said that no one 
had ever written or extemporized verses so sweet ; and that, in 
daily conversation, she displayed alternately an ease and an 
eloquence which fascinated all who heard her. They disputed 
a&to which part of Italy had given her birth ; some earnestly 
contending that she must be a Roman, or she could not speak 
the language with such purity. Her family name was unknown. 
Her first work, which had appeared five years since, bore but 
that of Corinne. No one could tell where she had lived, nor 
what she had been, before that period ; and she was now near- 
ly six and twenty. Such mystery and publicity, united in the 
fate of a female of whom every one spoke, yet whose real name 
no one knew, appeared to Nelvil as among the wonders of the 
land he came to see. He would have judged such a woman 
very severely in England ; but he applied not her social eti- 
quettes of Italy; and the crowning of Corinne awoke in his 
\ breast the same sensation which he would have felt on reading 
an adventure of Ariosto's. 



228 young lady's reader. 

A burst of exquisite melody preceded the approach of the tri- 
umphal procession. How thrilling is each event that is her- 
alded by music! A great number of Roman nobles, and not a 
few foreigners, came first. " Behold her retinue of admirers !" 
said one. " Yes," replied another ; " she receives a whole 
world's homage, but accords her preference to none. She is 
rich, independent ; it is even believed, from her noble air, that 
she is a lady of high birth, who wishes to remain unknown." — 
"A divinity veiled in clouds," concluded a third. Oswald look- 
ed on the man who spoke thus : every thing betokened him a 
person of the humblest class ; but the natives of the South con- 
verse as naturally in poetic phrases as if they imbibed them 
with the air, or were inspired by the sun. 

At last four spotless steeds appeared in the midst of the 
crowd, drawing an antiquely shaped car, beside which walked 
a band of maidens in snowy vestments. Wherever Corinne 
passed, perfumes were thrown upon the air; the windows, 
decked with flowers and scarlet hangings, were peopled by ga- 
zers, who shouted, " Long live Corinne ! Glory to beauty and 
to genius !" 

This emotion was general ; but, to partake it, one must lay 
aside English reserve and French raillery; Nelvil could not 
yield to the spirit of the scene, till he beheld Corinne. 

Attired like Domenichino's Sibyl, an Indian shawl was twin- 
ed among her lustrous black curls, a blue drapery fell over her 
robe of virgin white, and her whole costume was picturesque, 
without sufficiently varying from modern usage to appear taint- 
ed by affectation. Her attitude was noble and modest: it 
might, indeed, be perceived that she was content to be admired; 
yet a timid air blended with her joy, and seemed to ask pardon 
for her triumph. The expression of her features, her eyes, her 
smile, created a solicitude in her favor, and made Lord Nelvil 
her friend even before any more ardent sentiment subdued him. 
Her arms were transcendently beautiful; her figure tall, and, 
as we frequently see among the Grecian statues, rather robust 
— energetically characteristic of youth and happiness. There 
was something inspired in her air ; yet the very manner in 
which she bowed her thanks for the applause she received, be- 
trayed a natural disposition, sweetly contrasting with the pomp 
of her extraordinary situation. She gave you, at the same in- 
stant, the idea of a priestess of Apollo advancing towards his 
temple, and of a woman born to fulfil the usual duties of life 
with perfect simplicity ; in truth, her every gesture not more 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 229 

elicited wondering conjecture, than it conciliated sympathy and 
affection. The nearer she approached the capitol, so fruitful 
in classic associations, the more these tributes of admiration 
increased. That resplendent atmosphere, these Romans so 
full of enthusiasm, above all, Corinne herself, produced an elec- 
tric effect on Oswald. He had often, in his own land, seen 
statesmen drawn in triumph by the people ; but this was the 
first time that he had ever witnessed the tender' of such honors 
to a woman, illustrious only in mind. Her car of victory cost 
no fellow-mortal's tear ; nor terror nor regret could check his 
admiration for those fairest gifts of nature — creative fancy, sen- 
sibility, and reason. These new ideas so intensely occupied 
him, that he noticed none of the long-famed spots over which 
Corinne proceeded. At the foot of the steps leading to the 
capitol the car stopped, and all her friends rushed to offer their 
hands : she took that of Prince Castel Forte, the nobleman 
most esteemed in Rome for his talents and character. Every 
one approved her choice. She ascended to the capitol, whose 
imposing majesty seemed graciously to welcome the light foot- 
steps of woman. The instruments sounded with fresh vigor, 
the cannon shook the air, and the all-conquering Sibyl entered 
the palace prepared for her reception. 

In the centre of the hall stood the senator who was to crown 
Corinne, surrounded by his brothers in office ; on one side, all 
the cardinals and most distinguished ladies of Rome ; on the 
other, the members of the academy ; while the opposite ex- 
tremity was filled by some portion of the multitude who had 
followed Corinne. The chair destined for her was placed a 
step lower than that of the senator. Ere seating herself in the 
presence of that august assembly, she complied with the cus- 
tom of bending one knee to the earth : the gentle dignity of this 
action filled Oswald's eyes with tears, to his own surprise ; 
but, in the midst of all this success, it seemed as if the looks 
of Corinne implored the protection of a friend, with which no 
woman, however superior, can dispense ; and he thought how 
delicious it were to be the stay of her, whose sensitiveness 
alone could render such a prop necessary. As soon as Co- 
rinne was- seated, the Roman poets recited the odes and son- 
nets composed for this occasion : all praised her to the high- 
est ; but in styles that described her no more than they would 
have done any other woman of genius. The same mythologi- 
cal images and illusions might have been addressed to such 
beings from the days of Sappho to our own. 

20 



230 young lady's reader. 

Already Nelvil was displeased with this kind of incense for 
her ; he fancied that he could that moment have drawn a truer, 
a more finished portrait ; such, indeed, as could have belonged 
to no one but Corinne. 



THE ACCEPTANCE AND THE RELEASE.— Mrs. E. E. Smith. 

It was one of those bright and sunny mornings in June, 
which seem to realize all that the poets have sung of the love- 
liness of spring. The party at Cleveland had divided into sun- 
dry sets, — driving, riding, sailing, fishing, walking, as caprice 
or inclination prompted ; but all were abroad, wooing the glad 
influence of a blue and beaming sky. Catharine, also, was in- 
haling the balmy air, her heart bounding with the joy of its 
own hopes, throwing its own gladness over " the universal face 
of things," and gratefully exulting in the deep, internal con- 
sciousness, that in this fair world there is, if somewhat to be 
suffered, more — much more — to be enjoyed. 

" If life were ever thus !" said Sir Greville, who had walked 
for some minutes in silence at her side ; " the vicious and the 
trifling, far away ; — all creation radiant as if the angels were 
abroad, and it rejoiced in their smiles, — no clouds, — the very 
shadows rendering the sunshine more beautiful, — what could 
one crave more than its eternity ?" 

" Change" said Catharine, smiling at the unwonted mood 
into which he had fallen. 

" Such a thought is rather premature in early youth, — a 
youth so bright as yours," returned Sir Greville, thoughtfully, 
" The lesson it inculcates should be learned only from expe- 
rience." 

" An experience, however, which commences in childhood," 
said Catharine, playfully. " The flowers I loved bloomed with 
equal beauty in my presence for many hours, but one sufficed 
to send me to my birds, — and their warbling, in turn, was en- 
joyed, until satiety compelled me to employment, and employ- 
ment again to amusement. Even / have lived long enough to 
feel that the mind requires variety, and is not only refreshed, 
but strengthened by it." 

" You rest your argument on sensations ; but sentiments — 
you ought hardly to have awakened from the beautiful illusion 
of their immutability. " 

A cloud shaded the brow of Catharine. " She remembered 
her dead," and the anguish which had passed away, leaving a 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 231 

tender regret unmingled with repining, — too soothing to be 
painful. Cleveland saw the shadow, but he misinterpreted its 
source. 

" You cannot have lived long enough to feel that all the hap- 
piness of life consists in illusions ? You cannot have experi- 
enced the withering fact, that to be happy is but the result of 
skillfully deceiving ourselves ?" 

" Far from it," said Catharine. " The true is to me likewise 
the beautiful. I cannot allow that there is no reality about us, 
— that all the noble feelings of our nature are mere vanities. 
There is truth in religion, — truth in philosophy : let us hope 
there may be truth within man as around him." 

" Philosophy should be true," said Sir Greville, with a smile, 
*i for it has divested life of much of its poetry. We smile at 
the thunder, which our ancestors regarded as an omen, and 
calmly calculate the period of a comet, which they deemed a 
messenger sent to warn the nations of impending fate. After 
all, are we the happier for our knowledge ?" 

" Are we happier for civilization ? Do we value the reason 
which elevates us above the brute ?." said Catharine, the glow of 
animation spreading over her countenance. " You, who are the 
owner of palaces, enriched with the most elaborate workman- 
ship of art — the most splendid efforts of genius, — would you 
contentedly return to the barbarous magnificence of the Saxon, 
whose floor was strewn with rushes, and his naked walls stain- 
ed with smoke? Surely we should rejoice in the greater light 
of the present, and in measuring our ascent from the past, an- 
ticipate, with rapture, the progress of the future. A thousand 
years since, what were our countrymen ? — A thousand years 
hence, what will they be ?" 

" That is a splendid vista," said Sir Greville, gazing on her 
with delight. 

" What a happiness to you, who have such means of advan- 
cing the improvement which is to give it its splendor ! Your 
rank, — your influence, — your talents, — your time," — Catharine 
paused, for the expression of his eye caused hers to droop. 

" Catharine," said he, (it was the first time he had ever so 
addressed her,) " shall I tell you what yet I need ? — An im- 
pulse ! By what you have done, judge what you may do ! 
Invest my existence with new charms, — share with me the pur- 
suits — the duties you inculcate. Be yourself the blessing of 
my home, the angel of my destiny — be mine .'"— 



232 young lady's reader. 

" I have waited for you," said Cleveland, advancing to meet 
Catharine, and drawing her arm through his. " And yet this is 
a somewhat early hour for a sybarite of the aristocracy to be 
abroad, is it not ?" 

Catharine said something, not very intelligible, about the 
fineness of the morning, and the fragrance of the air. 

" Add a commendation of the warbling of the birds, and then 
you will have made as pretty a young lady's speech, and one as 
unlike Catharine Vernon, as heart could desire," said Cleve- 
land, with the bitterness of a man who is playing with his own 
misery. " Never tell me you are not changed, Catharine ; tell 
me truly, frankly, honestly, what has changed you 1" 

" And do you need to ask ?" said Catharine, striving to be 
firm. " Have you no secret consciousness that I ought to be 
changed ?" 

"My want of punctuality impugns my sincerity, perhaps, 
and you would punish my error by your coldness. I am no 
school-boy lover, Catharine. Spoiled by the adulation of the 
world, goaded by thoughts which your calm soul could not un- 
derstand, and would probably despise ; I am not in a temper to 
endure petulance, even from the woman I so ardently — admire." 

How Catharine felt that word ! 

" I will strive not to be petulant," she said, mildly, " and if I 
err, forgive me ; you may, for you know best why I should be 
petulant." 

"For the report of a stupid, lying newspaper, perhaps!" 
said Cleveland, with some violence, and more haughtiness. 
" No ! — I must not be weighed in that worthless balance, Cath- 
arine ! I will not defend myself against accusations drawn 
from such a vehicle ! Slander, in all its shapes, is abhorrent, 
but most when its source is nameless." 

" Let there be no anger between us," said Catharine, calmly : 
" there needs none. I am here, by your own appointment, to 
hear the explanation of some mystery which, last night, you 
avowed ought to be made, and of which there had already 
been too much between us." 

"And it shall be made. First of all, tell me, Catharine, 
what is love — ay, love — in your thoughts, feelings, heart — un- 
derstanding, if you will V 

She could not speak a word, and she would have wept, but 
how could she forgive herself for tears at such a moment — at 
a question so cruel ? 

" Forgive and pity my waywardness, Catharine," he said, 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 233 

changing his tone. " It is but the thunder of the fearful storm 
within. Have you not read of the violent convulsions of the 
elements which, at intervals, agitate the most sunny climes of 
the earth, unknown to more temperate latitudes ? Even thus it 
is now with me. My calmness yields to the voice of the hur- 
ricane ; human nature is too mighty to be bound in the tram- 
mels of convention, when the hour of conflict comes. And it 
has come." 

"I do pity you," said Catharine, gently; "yet, Cleveland, 
since a word — a wish — might terminate this conflict, why not 
speak it V 

"A word! — a wish! The struggles of man's passions are 
not to be so quieted !" said Cleveland, gloomily. " It is my 
misfortune to be under the dominion of opposing feelings : my 
judgment, my reason, my honor, all point alike to one path ; 
but memory — the wondrous power of the unforgotten past — 
agitates me with a thousand hopes, fears, wishes : why, I am 
'puling' like a school-boy," suddenly changing his tone for one 
of self-contempt ; " you do not recognize me, Catharine, in 
this guise." 

" ' Some have died for love, and some gone mad,' " she re- 
plied, with womanly scorn. 

" I am neither dying, nor maddening," said Cleveland, cold- 
ly ; " and you may believe my entire sanity, when I tell you 
that I am persuaded my happiness will be secured by our un- 
ion, and that I implore you — if indeed you love me, Catharine, 
— to hasten the bridal, that certainty may bring rest." 

" I have loved you, Cleveland," said Catharine, earnestly, 
" as woman may, in all honor, love. But if, with you, to love 
be to forget principle, judgment, propriety — the prudence of 
providing for the happiness of the future, rather than for the 
gratification of the present — such love I have not. I am still 
capable of so much consideration for myself as to assure you, 
that no inducement you could offer — no temptation the whole 
earth could afford — could humble me into accepting the hand of 
a man whose heart led him to another. Sir Greville Cleve- 
land, you are free. I will not tell you to be happy. I cannot 
so soon relinquish my belief in your nobility of soul, as to 
deem you capable of being speedily reconciled to yourself. 
Consolation, however, you will quickly find — may its balm be 
not only healing, but safe !" 

" You do not, cannot mean that we should separate !" and 
his countenance expressed sincere distress. " My happiness 

20* 



234 young lady's reader. 

is in your hands, Catharine ; my convictions — my heart itself, 
assure me that it is so. Be the guardian angel of my destiny. 
If you believe that I am worth salvation, preserve me, Catha- 
rine, from the abyss into which, with open eyes, I feel that I 
shall rush, if you withdraw yourself. With you is my safety ; 
with you are honor, happiness, dignity, all that can render hu- 
man life worthy of immortal man ! Pardon my error — -the 
wandering of a moment's thought. I cannot, must not lose 
you." 

"I dare not intrust my happiness to your keeping," said 
Catharine, firmly. 

" Do you doubt my honor V he asked, with the sternness he 
had occasionally manifested throughout their interview. " I 
cannot bear such a doubt from you. If you could conceive the 
extent of the sacrifice I am ready to make — " 

" I require none, I will accept none," interrupted Catharine, 
resolute to terminate a conversation which must evidently be 
their last, without any display of that anguish, which even now 
was hardly to be restrained. " We have not hitherto under- 
stood each other. You have estimated me more humbly than 
I have estimated myself; and in a point where a woman, true 
to herself, deems it least pardonable. Here we part, and both 
free. I have a right to request that you will not pain me by 
remaining at Darley, and that you will believe our separation 
final." 

" You shall be obeyed to the letter," said Cleveland, bowing 
with haughty composure, and turning away. 



THE ESCAPE.— Scott. 



The sun was now resting his huge disk upon the edge of the 
level ocean, and gilded the accumulation of towering clouds 
through which he had traveled the livelong day, and which 
now assembled on all sides, like misfortunes and disasters 
around a sinking empire and falling monarch. Still, however, 
his dying splendor gave a sombre magnificence to the massive 
congregation of vapors, forming out of their unsubstantial 
gloom the show of pyramids and towers, some touched with 
gold, some with purple, some with a hue of deep and dark red. 
The distant sea, stretched beneath this varied and gorgeous 
canopy, lay almost portentously still, reflecting back the daz- 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 235 

zling and level beams of the descending luminary, and the 
splendid coloring of the clouds amidst which he was setting. 
Nearer to the beach, the tide rippled onward in waves of spark- 
ling silver, that imperceptibly, yet rapidly, gained upon the 
sand. 

"With a mind employed in admiration of the romantic scene, 
or perhaps on some more agitating topic, Miss W ardour advan- 
ced in silence by her father's side, whose recently offended dig- 
nity did not stoop to open any conversation. Following the 
windings of the beach, they passed one projecting point or 
headland of rock after another, and now found themselves un- 
der a huge and continued extent of the precipices by which 
that iron-bound coast is in most places defended. Long pro- 
jecting reefs of rock, extending under water, and only evincing 
their existence by here and there a peak entirely bare, or by 
the breakers which foamed over those that were partially cov- 
ered, rendered Knockwinnock bay dreaded by pilots and ship- 
masters. The crags which rose between the beach and the 
mainland, to the height of two or three hundred feet, afforded 
in their crevices shelter for unnumbered sea-fowl, in situations 
seemingly secured by their dizzy height from the rapacity of 
man. Many of these wild tribes, with the instinct which sends 
them to seek the land before a storm arises, were now winging 
towards their nests with the shrill and dissonant clang which 
announces disquietude and fear. 

The disk of the sun became almost totally obscured ere he 
had altogether sunk below the horizon, and an early and lurid 
shade of darkness blotted the serene twilight of a summer eve- 
ning. The wind began next to arise, but its wild and moan- 
ing sound was heard for some time, and its effects became vis- 
ible on the bosom of the sea, before the gale was felt on shore. 
The mass of waters, now dark and threatening, began to lift 
itself in larger ridges, and sink in deeper furrows, forming 
waves that rose high in foam upon the breakers, or burst upon 
the beach with a sound resembling distant thunder. 

Appalled by this sudden change of weather, Miss Wardour 
drew close to her father, and held his arm fast. " I wish," at 
length she said, but almost in a whisper, as if ashamed to ex- 
press her increasing apprehensions, " I wish we had kept the 
road we intended, or waited at Monkbarns for the carriage." 

Sir Arthur looked round, but did not see, or would not ac- 
knowledge, any signs of an immediate storm. They would 
reach Knockwinnock, he said, long before the tempest began. 



236 YOUNG LADY S READER. 

But the speed with which he walked, and with which Isabella 
could hardly keep pace, indicated a feeling that some exertion 
was necessary to accomplish his consolatory prediction. 

They were now near the center of a deep but narrow bay, 
or recess, formed by two projecting capes of high and inacces- 
sible rock, which shot out into the sea like the horns of a cres- 
cent ; and neither durst communicate the apprehension which 
each began to entertain, that, from the unusually rapid advance 
of the tide, they might be deprived of the power of proceeding 
by doubling the promontory which lay before them, or of re- 
treating by the road which brought them thither. 

As they thus pressed forward, longing doubtless to exchange 
the easy curving line, which the sinuosities of the bay compel- 
led them to adopt, for a straighter and more expeditious path, 
though less conformable to the line of beauty, Sir Arthur ob- 
served a human figure on the beach advancing to meet them. 
" Thank God," he exclaimed, " we shall get round Halket- 
head ! that person must have passed it ;" thus giving vent to 
the feeling of hope, though he had suppressed that of appre- 
hension. 

" Thank God indeed !" echoed his daughter, half audibly, 
half internally, as expressing the gratitude which she strongly 
felt. 

The figure which advanced to meet them made many signs, 
which the haze of the atmosphere, now disturbed by wind and 
by a drizzling rain, prevented them from seeing or comprehend- 
ing distinctly. Some time before they met, Sir Arthur could 
recognize the old blue-gowned beggar, Edie Ochiltree. It is 
said that even the brute creation lay aside their animosities 
and antipathies when pressed by an instant and common dan- 
ger. The beach under Halket-head, rapidly diminishing in 
extent by the encroachments of a spring-tide and a north-west 
wind, was in like manner a neutral field, where even a justice 
of peace and a strolling mendicant might meet upon terms of 
mutual forbearance. 

" Turn back ! turn back !" exclaimed the vagrant ; " why 
did ye not turn when I waved to you V 

" We thought," replied Sir Arthur, in. great agitation, " we 
thought we could get round Halket-head." 

" Halket-head ! The tide will be running on Halket-head by 
this time like the Fall of Fyers ! it was a' I could do to get 
round it twenty minutes since — it was coming in three feet 
a-breast. We will maybe get back by Bally-burgh Ness Point 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 237 

yet. The Lord help us, it's our only chance. We can but 
try." 

" My God, my child !" — " My father, my dear father !" ex- 
claimed the parent and daughter, as, fear lending them strength 
and speed, they turned to retrace their steps, and endeavor to 
double the point, the projection of which formed the southern 
extremity of the bay. 

" I heard ye were here, frae the bit callant ye sent to meet 
your carriage," said the beggar, as he trudged stoutly on a step 
or two behind Miss Wardour, " and I couldna bide to think o' 
the dainty young 1 eddy's peril, that has aye been kind to ilka 
forlorn heart that cam near her. Sae I lookit at the lift and 
the rin o' the tide, till I settled it that if I could get down time 
enough to gie you warning, we wad do weel yet. But I doubt, 
I doubt, I have been beguiled ! for what mortal ee ever saw 
sic a race as the tide is rinning e'en now? See, yonder's the 
Ratton's Skerry — he aye held his neb abune the water in my 
day — but he's aneath it now." 

Sir Arthur cast a look in the direction in which the old man 
pointed. A huge rock, which in general, even in spring-tides, 
displayed a hulk like the keel of a large vessel, was now quite 
under water, and its place only indicated by the boiling and 
breaking of the eddying waves which encountered its subma- 
rine resistance. 

" Mak haste, mak haste, my bonny leddy," continued the 
old man, " mak haste, and we may do yet! Take haud o' my 
arm — an auld and frail arm it's now, but it's been in as sair 
stress as this is yet. Take haud o' my arm, my winsome led- 
dy! D'ye see yon wee black speck amang the wallowing 
waves yonder ? This morning it was as high as the mast o' 
a brig — it's sma' eneugh now — but, while I see as muckle 
black about it as the crown o' my hat, I winna believe but 
we'll get round the Bally-burgh Ness for a' that's come and 
gane yet." 

Isabella, in silence, accepted from the old man the assistance 
which Sir Arthur was less able to afford her. The waves had 
now encroached so much upon the beach, that the firm and 
smooth footing which they had hitherto had on the sand must 
be exchanged for a rougher path close to the foot of the preci- 
pice, and in some places even raised upon its lower ledges. It 
would have been utterly impossible for Sir Arthur Wardour or 
his daughter to have found their way along these shelves with- 
out the guidance and encouragement of the beggar, who had 



238 young lady's reader. 

been there before in high tides, though never, he acknowledged, 
"in sae awsome a night as this." 

It was indeed a dreadful evening. The howling of the storm 
mingled with the shrieks of the sea-fowl, and sounded like the 
dirge of the three devoted beings, who, pent between two of 
the most magnificent, yet most dreadful objects of nature — a 
raging tide and an insurmountable precipice — toiled along their 
painful and dangerous path, often lashed by the spray of some 
giant billow, which threw itself higher on the beach than those 
that had preceded it. Each minute did their enemy gain 
ground perceptibly upon them ! Still, however, loth to relin- 
quish the last hopes of life, they bent their eyes on the black 
rock pointed out by Ochiltree. It was yet distinctly visible 
among the breakers, and continued to be so, until they came 
to a turn in their precarious path where an intervening projec- 
tion of rock hid it from their sight. Deprived of the view of 
the beacon on which they had relied, they now experienced the 
double agony of terror and suspense. They struggled for- 
ward, however ; but, when they arrived at the point from which 
they ought to have seen the crag, it was no longer visible. — 
The signal of safety was lost among a thousand white break- 
ers, which, dashing upon the point of the promontory, rose in 
prodigious sheets of snowy foam as high as the mast of a first- 
rate man-of-war, against the dark brow of the precipice. 

The countenance of the old man fell. Isabella gave a faint 
shriek, and, " God have mercy upon us !" which her guide sol- 
emnly uttered, was piteously echoed by Sir Arthur — " My 
child ! my child ! — to die such a death !" 

"My father! my dear father!" his daughter exclaimed, 
clinging to him, — " and you too, who have lost your own life 
in endeavoring to save ours !" 

" That's not worth the counting," said the old man. " I hae 
lived to be weary o' life ; and here or yonder — at the back o' 
a dyke, in a wreath o' snaw, or in the wame o' a wave, what 
signifies how the auld gaberlunzie dies ?" 

" Good man," said Sir Arthur, "can you think of nothing? 
— of no help? — I'll make you rich — I'll give you a farm — ■ 
I'll " 

" Our riches will be soon equal," said the beggar, looking 
out upon the strife of the waters — " they are sae already ; for 
I hae nae land, and you would give your fair bounds and baro- 
ny for a square yard of rock that would be dry for twal hours." 

While they exchanged these words, they paused upon the 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 239 

highest ledge of rock to which they could attain ; for it seem- 
ed that any further attempt to move forward could only serve to 
anticipate their fate. Here then they were to await the sure 
though slow progress of the raging element, something in the 
situation of the martyrs of the early church, who, exposed by 
heathen tyrants to be slain by wild beasts, were compelled for 
a time to witness the impatience and rage by which the ani- 
mals were agitated, while awaiting the signal for undoing their 
grates and letting them loose upon the victims. 

Yet even this fearful pause gave Isabella time to collect the 
powers of a mind naturally strong and courageous, and which 
rallied itself at this terrible juncture. " Must we yield life," 
she said, " without a struggle 1 Is there no path, however 
dreadful, by which we could climb the crag, or at least attain 
some height above the tide, where we could remain till morn- 
ing, or till help comes 1 they must be aware of our situation, 
and will raise the country to relieve us." 

Sir Arthur, who heard, but scarcely comprehended, his 
daughter's question, turned, nevertheless, instinctively and ea- 
gerly to the old man, as if their lives were in his gift. Ochil- 
tree paused. " I was a bauld craigsman," he said, " ance in 
my life, and raony a kittywake's and lungie's nest hae I har- 
ried up amang thae very black rocks ; but it's lang, lang syne, 
and nae mortal could speel them without a rope — and if I had 
ane, my ee-sight, and my footstep, and my hand-grip, hae a' 
failed mony a day sinsyne — and then how could 1 save you ? 
— But there was a path here ance, though maybe if we could 
see it ye would rather bide where we are — His name be prais- 
ed !" he ejaculated suddenly, " there's ane coming down the 
crag e'en now !" — Then, exalting his voice, he hilloa'd out to 
the daring adventurer such instructions as his former practice, 
and the remembrance of local circumstances, suddenly forced 
upon his mind : — " Ye're right — ye're right ! — that gate, that 
gate ! — fasten the rope weel round Crummie's-horn, that's the 
muckle black stane — cast twa plies round it — that's it ! — now 
weize yoursell a wee easel-ward — a wee mair yet to that ither 
stane — we ca'd it the Cat's-lug — there used to be the root o' an 
aik-tree there — that will do ! — canny now, lad — canny now — 
tak tent and tak time — Lord bless ye, tak time. — Vera weel ! — 
Now ye maun get to Bessy's Apron, that's the muckle braid 
flat blue stane — and then, I think, wi' your help and the tow 
thegither, I'll win at ye, and then we'll be able to get up the 
young leddy and Sir Arthur." 



240 young lady's reader. 

The adventurer following the directions of old Edie, flung 
him down the end of the rope, which he secured around Miss 
Wardour, wrapping her previously in his own blue gown, to 
preserve her as much as possible from injury. Then, availing 
himself of the rope, which was made fast at the other end, he 
began to ascend the face of the crag — a most precarious and 
dizzy undertaking, which, however, after one or two perilous 
escapes, placed him safe on the broad flat stone beside our 
friend Lovel. Their joint strength was able to raise Isabella 
to the place of safety which they had attained. Lovel then de- 
scended in order to assist Sir Arthur, around whom he adjust- 
ed the rope ; and again mounting to their place of refuge, with 
the assistance of old Ochiltree, and such aid as Sir Arthur 
himself could afford, he raised himself beyond the reach of the 
billows. 

The sense of reprieve from approaching and apparently inev- 
itable death, had its usual effect. The father and daughter 
threw themselves into each other's arms, kissed, and wept for 
joy, although their escape was connected with the prospect of 
passing a tempestuous night upon a precipitous ledge of rock, 
which scarce afforded footing for the four shivering" beings, 
who now, like the sea-fowl around them, clung there in hopes 
of some shelter from the devouring element which raged be- 
neath. The spray of the billows, which attained in fearful 
succession the foot of the precipice, overflowing the beach on 
which they so lately stood, flew as high as their place of tem- 
porary refuge ; and the stunning sound with which they dashed 
against the rocks beneath, seemed as if they still demanded the 
fugitives in accents of thunder as their destined prey. It was 
a summer night doubtless ; yet the probability was slender, that 
a frame so delicate as that of Miss Wardour should survive till 
morning the drenching of the spray, and the dashing of the 
rain, which now burst in full violence, accompanied with deep 
and heavy gusts of wind, added to the constrained and perilous 
circumstances of their situation. 

" The lassie — the puir sweet lassie," said the old man ; 
" mony such a night have I weathered at hame and abroad, but, 
God guide us, how can she ever win through it !" 

His apprehension was communicated in smothered accents 
to Lovel : for, with the sort of free-masonry by which bold and 
ready spirits correspond in moments of danger, and become al- 
most instinctively known to each other, they had established a 
mutual confidence. — " I'll climb up the cliff again," said Lovel, 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 241 

" there's daylight enough left to see my footing ; I'll climb up 
and call for more assistance." 

" Do so, do so, for heaven's sake !" said Sir Arthur, eagerly. 

" Are ye mad ?" said the mendicant ; " Francie o' Fovvls- 
heugh, and he was the best craigsman that ever speel'd heugh, 
(mair by token, he brake his neck upon the Dunbuy of Slaines,) 
wadna hae ventured upon the Halket-head craigs after sun- 
down — It's God's grace, and a great wonder besides, that ye 
are not in the middle o' that roaring sea wi' what ye hae done 
already — I didna think there was the man left alive would hae 
come down the craigs as ye did. I question an I could hae 
done it mysell, at this hour and in this weather, in the youngest 
and yaldest of my strength — But to venture up again — it's a 
mere and a clear tempting o' Providence." 

" I have no fear," answered Lovel ; " I marked all the sta- 
tions perfectly as I came down, and there is still light enough 
left to see them quite well — I am sure I can do it with perfect 
safety. Stay here, my good friend, by Sir Arthur and the 
young lady." 

" Deil be in my feet then," answered the bedes-man sturdily ; 
" if ye gang, I'll gang too ; for between the twa o' us, we'll 
hae mair than wark eneugh to get to the tap o' the heugh." 

" No, no — stay you here and attend to Miss Wardour — you 
see Sir Arthur is quite exhausted." 

" Stay yoursell then, an I'll gae," said the old man; "let 
death spare the green corn and take the ripe." 

" Stay both of you, I charge you," said Isabella, faintly, "I 
am well, and can spend the night very well here — I feel quite 
refreshed." So saying, her voice failed her — she sunk down, 
and would have fallen from the crag, had she not been support- 
ed by Lovel and Ochiltree, who placed her in a posture half 
sitting, half reclining, beside her father, who, exhausted by fa- 
tigue of body and mind so extreme and unusual, had already 
sat down on a stone in a sort of stupor. 

" It is impossible to leave them," said Lovel — " What is to 
be done 1 — Hark ! hark ! — Did I not hear a halloo ?" 

" The skriegh of a Tammie Norie," answered Ochiltree, " I 
ken the skirl week" 

" No, by heaven," replied Lovel, " it was a human voice !" 

A distant hail was repeated, the sound plainly distinguish- 
able among the various elemental noises, and the clang of the 
sea-mews by which they were surrounded. The mendicant 
and Lovel exerted their voices in a loud halloo, the former 

21 



242 young lady's reader. 

waving Miss Wardour's handkerchief on the end of his staff to 
make them conspicuous from above. Though the shouts were 
repeated, it was some time before they were in exact response 
to their own, leaving the unfortunate sufferers uncertain wheth- 
er, in the darkening twilight and increasing storm, they had 
made the persons who apparently were traversing the verge of 
the precipice to bring them assistance, sensible of the place in 
which they had found refuge. At length their halloo was reg- 
ularly and distinctly answered, and their courage confirmed, by 
the assurance that they were within hearing, if not within 
reach, of friendly assistance. 

The shout of human voices from above was soon augmented, 
and the gleam of torches mingled with those lights of evening 
which still remained amidst the darkness of the storm. Some 
attempt was made to hold communication between the assist- 
ants above, and the sufferers beneath, who were still clinging 
to their precarious place of safety ; but the howling of the tem- 
pest limited their intercourse to cries, as inarticulate as those 
of the winged denizens of the crag, which shrieked in chorus, 
alarmed by the reiterated sound of human voices, where they 
had seldom been heard. 

On the verge of the precipice an anxious group had now as- 
sembled. Oldbuck was the foremost and most earnest, pres- 
sing forward with unwonted desperation to the very brink of the 
crag, and extending his head (his hat and wig secured by a 
handkerchief under his chin) over the dizzy height, with an air 
of determination which made his more timorous assistants 
tremble. 

"Haud a care, haud a care, Monkbarns," cried Caxon, 
clinging to the skirts of his patron, and withholding him from 
danger as far as his strength permitted — " God's sake, haud a 
care ! — Sir Arthur's drowned already, and an ye fa' over the 
cleugh too, there will be but ae wig left in the parish, and that's 
the minister's." 

" Mind the peak there," cried Mucklebackit, an old fisher- 
man and smuggler — " mind the peak — Steenie, Steenie Wilks, 
bring up the tackle — I'se warrant we'll sune heave them on 
board, Monkbarns, wad ye but stand out o' the gate." 

" I see them," said Oldbuck, " I see them low down on that 
flat stone — Hilli-hilloa, hilli-ho-a!" 

" I see them mysell weel eneugh," said Mucklebackit ; 
" they are sitting down yonder like hoodie-craws in a mist ; 
but d'ye think ye'll help them wi' skirling that gate like an 



FICTITIOUS HTSTORY. 243 

auld skart before a flaw o' weather ? — Steenie, lad, bring up 
the mast — Odd, I's hae them up as we used to bouse up the 
kegs o' gin and brandy lang syne — Get up the pick-axe, make 
a step for the mast — Make the chair fast with the rattlin — haul 
taught and belay !" 

The fishers had brought with them the mast of a boat, and 
as half of the country fellows about had now appeared, either 
out of zeal or curiosity, it was soon sunk in the ground, and 
sufficiently secured. A yard, across the upright mast, and a 
rope stretched along it, and reeved through a block at each 
end, formed an extempore crane, which afforded the means of 
lowering an arm-chair, well secured and fastened, down to the 
flat shelf on which the sufferers had roosted. Their joy at 
hearing the preparations going on for their deliverance was 
considerably qualified when they beheld the precarious vehicle, 
by means of which they were to be conveyed to upper air. It 
swung about a yard free of the spot which they occupied, obey- 
ing each impulse of the tempest, the empty air all around it, 
and depending upon the security of a rope, which, in the in- 
creasing darkness, had dwindled to an almost imperceptible 
thread. Besides the hazard of committing a human being to 
the vacant atmosphere in such a slight means of conveyance, 
there was the fearful danger of the chair and its occupant being 
dashed, either by the wind or the vibrations of the cord, against 
the rugged face of the precipice. But to diminish the risk as 
much as possible, the experienced seamen had let down with 
the chair another line, which, being attached to it, and held by 
the persons beneath, might serve by way of gy, as Muckle- 
backit expressed it, to render its descent in some measure stea- 
dy and regular. Still, to commit one's self in such a vehicle, 
through a howling tempest of wind and rain, with a beetling 
precipice above, and a raging abyss below, required that cour- 
age which despair alone can inspire. Yet wild as the sounds 
and sights of danger were, both above, beneath, and around, 
and doubtful and dangerous as the mode of escaping appeared 
to be, Lovel and the old mendicant agreed, after a moment's 
consultation, and after the former, by a sudden strong pull, had, 
at his own imminent risk, ascertained the security of the rope, 
that it would be best to secure Miss Wardour in the chair, and 
trust to the tenderness and care of those above for her being 
safely craned up to the top of the crag. 

" Let my father go first," exclaimed Isabella ; " for God's 
sake, my friends, place him first in safety." 



244 young lady's reader. 

" It cannot be, Miss Wardour," said Lovel ; " your life must 
be first secured — the rope which bears your weight may" • 

" I will not listen to a reason so selfish ?" 

" But ye maun listen to it, my bonny lassie," said Ochiltree, 
" for a' our lives depend on it — besides, when ye get on the 
tap o' the heugh yonder, ye can gie them a round guess o' 
what's ganging on in this Patmos o' ours — and Sir Arthur's far 
by that, as I am thinking." 

Struck with the truth of this reasoning, she exclaimed, 
" True, most true ; I am ready and willing to undertake the first 
risk — What shall 1 say to our friends above ?" 

" Just to look that their tackle does not graze on the face o' 
the crag, and to let the chair down, and draw it up hoolly and 
fairly — we will halloo when we are ready." 

With the sedulous attention of a parent to a child, Lovel 
bound Miss Wardour with his handkerchief, neckcloth, and the 
mendicant's leathern belt, to the back and arms of the chair, 
ascertaining accurately the security of each knot, while Ochil- 
tree kept Sir Arthur quiet. " What are ye doing wi' my bairn ? 
— What are ye doing ? — She shall not be separated from me — 
Isabel, stay with me, I command you." 

" Lordsake, Sir Arthur, haud your tongue, and be thankful to 
God that there's wiser folk than you to manage this job," cried 
the beggar, worn out by the unreasonable exclamations of the 
poor baronet. 

" Farewell, my father," murmured Isabella — " farewell, my 
— my friends," and, shutting her eyes, as Edie's experience 
recommended, she gave the signal to Lovel, and he to those 
who were above. She rose, while the chair in which she sat 
was kept steady by the line which Lovel managed beneath. — 
With a beating heart he watched the flutter of her white dress, 
until the vehicle was on a level with the brink of the precipice. 

" Canny now, lads, canny now !" exclaimed old Muckle- 
backit, who acted as commodore ; " swerve the yard a bit — 
Now — there ! there she sits safe on dry land !" 

A loud shout announced the successful experiment to her 
fellow-sufferers beneath, who replied with a ready and cheerful 
halloo. Monkbarns, in his ecstacy of joy, stripped his great- 
coat to wrap up the young lady, and would have pulled off his 
coat and waistcoat for the same purpose, had he not been with- 
held by the cautious Caxon. " Haud a care o' us, your honor 
will be killed wi' the hoast — ye'll no get out o' your night-cowl 
this fortnight — and that will suit us unco ill. — Na, na, — there's 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 245 

the chariot down by, let twa o' the folk carry the young lady 
there." 

" You're right," said the antiquary, re-adjusting the sleeves 
and collar of his coat; " you're right, Caxon ; this is a naughty 
night to swim in. — Miss W ardour, let me convey you to the 
chariot." 

'' Not for worlds till I see my father safe." 

In a few distinct words, evincing how much her resolution 
had surmounted even the mortal fear of so agitating a hazard, 
she explained the nature of the situation beneath, and the wishes 
of Lovel and Ochiltree. 

" Right, right, that's right too — I should like to see the son 
of Sir Gamelyn de Guardover on dry land myself — I have a 
notion he would sign the abjuration oath, and the Ragman-roll 
to boot, and acknowledge Queen Mary to be nothing better 
than she should be, to get alongside my bottle of old port that 
he ran away from, and left scarce begun. — But he's safe now, 
and here a' comes- — (for the chair was again lowered, and Sir 
Arthur made fast in it, without much consciousness on his own 
part)-r-here a' comes — bowse away, my boys — canny wi' him 
— a pedigree of a hundred links is hanging on a ten-penny tow 
— the whole barony of Knockwinnock depends on three plies 
of hemp — respice Jtnem, respice funem — look to your end — 
look to a rope's end. — Welcome, welcome, my good old friend, 
to firm land, though I cannot say to warm land or to dry land 
— a cord forever against fifty fathom of water, though not in 
the sense of the base proverb — a fico for the phrase — better sus. 
per funem, than sus. per coll." 

While Oldbuck ran on in this way, Sir Arthur was safely 
wrapped in the close embraces of his daughter, who, assuming 
that authority which the circumstances demanded, ordered some 
of the assistants to convey him to the chariot, promising to fol- 
low in a few minutes. She lingered on the cliff, holding an old 
countryman's arm, to witness probably the safety of those whose 
dangers she had shared. 

" What have we here V said Oldbuck, as the vehicle once 
more ascended, " What patched and weather-beaten matter is 
this ?" Then, as the torches illumined the rough face and grey 
hairs of old Ochiltree, — " What! is it thou ? — come, old Mock- 
er, I must needs be friends with thee — but who the devil makes 
up your party besides ?"■ 

" Ane that's weel worth any twa o' us, Monkbarns — it's the 
young stranger lad they ca' Lovel — and he's behaved this bless- 

21* 



246 young lady's reader. 

ed night as if he had three lives to rely on, and was willing 
to waste them a' rather than endanger ither folks — Ca' hooly, 
sirs, as ye wad win an auld man's blessing ! — mind there's nae- 
body below now to haud the gy — Hae a care o' the Cat's-lug- 
corner — bide weel aff Crummie's-horn !" 

" Have a care indeed," echoed Oldbuck ; " What ! is it my 
rara avis — my black swan — my phoenix of companions in a 
post-chaise? — take care of him, Mueklebackh." 

" As muckle care as if he were a greybeard o' brandy ; and 
T canna take mair if his hair were like John Harlowe's. — Yo 
ho, my hearts, bowse away with him !" 

Lovel did in fact run a much greater risk than any of his 
precursors. His weight was not sufficient to render his ascent 
steady amid such a storm of wind, and he swung like an agita- 
ted pendulum, at the mortal risk of being dashed against the 
rocks. But he was young, bold, and active, and, with the as- 
sistance of the beggar's stout piked staff, which he had retain- 
ed by advice of the proprietor, contrived to bear himself from 
the face of the precipice, and the yet more hazardous projecting 
cliffs which varied its surface. Tossed in empty spac*, like 
ah idle and unsubstantial feather, with a motion that agitated 
the brain at once with fear and with dizziness, he retained his 
alertness of exertion and presence of mind ; and it was not until 
he was safely grounded upon the summit of the cliff, that he felt 
temporary and giddy sickness. As he recovered from a sort 
of half swoon, he cast his eyes eagerly around. The object 
which they would most willingly have sought was already in 
the act of vanishing. Her white garment was just discernible 
as she followed on the path which her father had taken. She 
had lingered till she saw the last of their company rescued 
from danger, and until she had been assured by the hoarse voice 
of Mucklebackit, that "the callant had come offwi' unbrizzed 
banes, and that he was but in a kind of dwam." But Lovel 
was not aware that she had expressed in his fate even this de- 
gree of interest, which, though nothing more than was due to a 
stranger who had assisted her in such an hour of peril, he 
would have gladly purchased by braving even more imminent 
danger than he had that evening been exposed to. The beggar 
she had already commanded to come to Knockwinnock that 
night. He made an excuse, — " Then to-morrow let me see 
you." 

The old man promised to obey. Oldbuck thrust something 
into his hand — Ochiltree looked at it by the torch-light, and re- 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 247 

turned it. — " Na, na ! I never tak gowd — besides, Monkbarns, 
ye wad maybe be rueing it the morn." Then turning to the 
group of fishermen and peasants, — " Now, sirs, wha will gie 
me a supper and some clean pease-strae ?" 

" I" " and I," " and I," answered many a ready voice. 



THE FRENCHMAN AND THE MONK.— James. 

The servant left us by the fire, while he proceeded to a door 
on the other side of the hall, which being opened, he announ- 
ced our arrival and condition to some one within ; describing our 
situation with a general enumeration of all the miseries of wet, 
and dirt, and fatigue, and hunger. In truth, as the man proceed- 
ed, I could not help feeling that I must present a most wretch- 
ed and vagabond appearance indeed, and doubted much whether 
the master of the mansion, if he came forth to examine us in 
person, would permit such an ill-looking scoundrel as the ser- 
vant pictured me, to remain a minute longer than necessary in 
his house. 

There was a cheerful blaze of light, however, that issued forth 
through the open door from the inner chamber, which had some- 
thing in it comfortably hospitable ; and I soon had the satis- 
faction of finding that the good lackey's description of our 
state and appearance, had not received the slightest attention ; 
for some one within who had been speaking when he entered, 
went on all the while ; and the cessation of the servant's voice 
allowed me to hear the harangue the other was addressing to 
some third person. 

The words — " And truly, as I was saying, if there be any 
means of healing painful memories, you will find them in 
France, which is not only a garden of ever new delights, but 
is a garden which, in itself, contains a thousand fountains of 
consolation, of whose waters, with that exquisite liberality of 
feeling for which, above all the nations upon earth, the French 
■ — What is it Francois ? Is the supper ready ?" — these words 
at once convinced me that I should meet with an acquaintance 
in one of the guests, if not in the master of the dwelling. 

The servant told his story again, but with somewhat less 
minuteness ; and I heard an immediate bustle within. " A 
stranger!" cried the same voice. "Lost his way! drenched 
in the rain ! Show him in. Bon Dieu ! why did you not 



248 young lady's reader. 

show him in ? For the honor of France, which is, without 
any comparison, the most hospitable country in Europe, you 
should not have hesitated a moment on his admission. Show 
him in ! show him in ! Have something more added to the 
supper, and light a fire in the mirror chamber." 

The servant now announced that Monsieur would be glad to 
see me, if I would walk forward into the cabinet beyond ; and 
I accordingly presented myself in a moment to my worthy ac- 
quaintance, Monsieur de Vitray. He had prepared himself 
with somewhat of a theatrical attitude, to receive the belated 
traveler ; and before he perceived who it was, he had taken 
two steps forward on the tip of his toe, and made two bows ; 
the one distant and reserved, the other more familiar and cour- 
teous. But as I approached into the full light, and his memory 
came to his aid, he skipped forward at once, took me in his 
arms, and embracing me with the most overpowering demon- 
strations of regard, welcomed me to his chateau with, I believe, 
unfeigned joy. 

My eyes now fell upon the person with whom he had been 
conversing ; and, while I replied to my friend's civility, I had 
a full view of his companion, who sat with his glance fixed up- 
on the fire, taking very little notice of what was passing around 
him. 

He was apparently a Benedictine monk ; and had doubtless 
been in former years a very handsome man, though there was 
nothing peculiarly striking in his features. His cowl was 
thrown back, and the shaved head, with its ring of grizzled 
black hair that fringed the tonsure, gave a very peculiar char- 
acter to his countenance, which seemed lengthened and attenu- 
ated by the want of the garniture with which it is furnished by 
nature. His beard, on the contrary, had been suffered to grow 
very long ; and though originally as black as ink, was now 
thickly mingled with white hairs. In complexion he was 
deadly pale, and would have looked almost like a statue, had 
not his heavy eyebrows overhung as bright and sparkling a 
pair of deep black eyes as ever flashed from a human counte- 
nance. He was evidently deep in thought when we came in, 
and remained without rising, with his glance fixed upon the fire, 
while his whole countenance assumed, from the very intensity 
of his gaze, a look of sternness, and almost ferocity, which the 
features did not seem calculated to convey. 

Monsieur de Vitray, after having in vain attempted to call 
the Benedictine's attention to an introduction he endeavored to 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 249 

effect between us, urged my proceeding to the chamber he had 
ordered to be prepared, for the purpose of changing my drip- 
ping dress. This would not have been easily accomplished — 
as, although I was plentifully supplied, as far as under-garments 
went, I had not taken the pains to purchase myself a complete 
change of attire, when I habited myself in mourning at Calais — 
but my worthy host accompanied me himself to my chamber, 
and insisted upon my putting on his black velvet morning-gown, 
and thus descending to the supper-table. 

The monk had apparently exhausted the train of thought in 
which he had been engaged at our first entrance ; for on our 
return to the small cabinet in which we left him, he rose and 
soon joined our conversation, as a man of talent and knowledge 
of the world. There was something of stern austerity, in- 
deed, pervaded his manners ; but wilhal, there mingled in the 
webs of all his ideas a thread of deep feeling, which gave a 
splendid hue to the whole texture. The secret, I believe, of 
exciting the sympathies of our fellow-creatures, and awaken- 
ing an interest for ourselves in the bosoms of others, is this 
alone — to feel deeply ; not as some men do, to let our minds 
dance like a light water-fly on the current of all events ; but to 
have hearts which, like a fine instrument, give back full and dis- 
tinct tones to all that touches them, whether the chords that are 
struck be gay or gloomy, be tuneful or discordant, 

Notwithstanding the rigor and sternness of the Benedictine's 
demeanor, and what appeared to me a frivolous attention to 
minute forms — the crossing of his breast, the long and silent 
prayer, the plate of herbs, and the cup of cold water, — yet 
there was a power and an intensity in all his thoughts, that 
commanded attention and interest. There was a degree of 
fancifulaess too in his conversation, notwithstanding its austere 
gravity, which gave it a singular and exciting character. 
Nothing was mentioned — not the most trifling circumstance — 
but had its peculiar associations in his mind ; and those often so 
remote, and at first sight so irrelevant, that the thoughts of his 
hearers were obliged to labor after, startled and yet not shocked 
by the rapid progress of his. 

I remember two or three instances, though perhaps not the 
most striking ones, which occurred in the course of our con- 
versation during that evening. We spoke of the wind, as it 
howled, and whistled, and rushed past the old building, as if in 
anger at the massive walls which defied its power. 



250 young lady's reader. 

" In France," said Monsieur de Vitray, " our glorious cli- 
mate is so happily tempered to our benignant soil, that these 
gales, which happen only at the equinoxes, find our seed sown 
and safely germed in the spring, and our fruits gathered, and 
corn granaried in the autumn. They then come to clear and 
purify the air for the rest of the year." 

" Hark, how it howls !" said the monk, taking his own pecu- 
liar view, as the clamorous raging of the importunate blast com- 
pelled attention to its angry murmurs. " Hark, how it howls ! 
telling of shipwreck, and desolation, and death. Wo to the 
sea-tossed mariner ! Wo to the anxious and expectant wife 
that, waiting the sailor's or the fisherman's return, hears the 
furious voice of the tempest trumpeting his death at the shaking 
door of her poor cabin ! Wo to the lordly merchant, whose 
wealth is on the main, and who hears in every gust the tidings 
of ruined speculations, and broken hopes, and bankruptcy, and 
shame ! Well has Satan been called the prince of the powers 
of the air, and never do I hear the equinoctial blasts go howl- 
ing and reveling through the pathless sky, without thinking it 
may be that the evil spirits that hover round mankind, are then 
for a season unchained, to ride careering over the earth, and in 
the agony of their joy to work their will of mischief and dis- 
may." 

We spoke of the rain; and 1, foolishly enough, in mention- 
ing all the annoyance it had occasioned me, loaded it with 
maledictions. 

" Call it not accursed, my son," said the monk. " Oh, no ! 
remember that every drop that falls, bears into the bosom of the 
earth a quality of beautiful fertility. Remember that each glo- 
rious tree, and herb, and shrub, and flower, owes to those drops 
its life, its freshness, and its beauty. Remember that half the 
loveliness of the green world is all their gift ; and that without 
them we should wander through a dull desert as dusty as the 
grave. Take but a single drop of rain, cloistered in the green 
fold of a blade of grass, and pour upon it one ray of the mor- 
ning sun — where will you get lapidary with his utmost skill, to 
cut a diamond that shall shine like that ? Oh, no ! blessed 
forever be the beautiful drops of the sky, the refreshing sooth- 
ers of the seared earth — the nourishers of the flowers — that 
calm race of beings which are all loveliness and tranquility, 
without passion, or pain, or desire, or disappointment — whose 
life is beauty, and whose breath is perfume." 



PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. 251 

I would have fain heard more ; for to me there was a fresh- 
ness in the character of the Benedictine, that was well worthy 
of more deep remark; but, unhappily, Monsieur de 7itray did 
not share the same feelings, and with the one eternal current of 
thought which had so channeled his mind, that I defy the 
strength and perseverance of Hercules to have turned the 
stream, he once more bore away the conversation to France. 
The monk showed no signs of annoyance, whatever he felt ; 
but rose and retired to his chamber, leaving me to an excellent 
bottle of Burgundy, a more substantial supper than he had made 
himself, and the eternal chiming in of Monsieur de Vitray's 
laud of France ; which, with reverence be it spoken, was worse 
than a Greek chorus. 



PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. 



JUSTICE AS IT RESPECTS REPUTATION.— Wayland. 

We are forbidden to judge, that is, to assign unnecessarily 
bad motives to the actions of men. I say unnecessarily, for 
some actions are in their nature such, that to presume a good 
motive is impossible. 

This rule would teach us, first, to presume no unworthy mo- 
tive, when the action is susceptible of an innocent one. 

And, secondly, never to ascribe to an action which we con- 
fess to be good, any other motive than that from which it pro- 
fesses to proceed. 

This is the rule by which we are bound to be governed in 
our own private opinions of men. And if, from any circumstan- 
ces, we are led to entertain any doubts of the motives of men, 
we are bound to retain these doubts within our own bosoms, 
unless we are obliged, for some sufficient reason, to disclose 
them. But if we are obliged to adopt this rule respecting our 
own opinion of others, by how much more are we obliged to 
adopt it in the publication of our opinions ! If we are not al- 
lowed, unnecessarily, to suppose an unworthy motive, by how 
much less are we allowed to circulate it, and thus render it 



252 young lady's reader. 

universally supposed ! " Charity thinketh no evil, rejoiceth 
not in iniquity." 

The reasons for this rule are obvious : 

1. The motives of men, unless rendered evident by their ac- 
tions, can be known to God alone. They are, evidently, out of 
the reach of man. In assigning motives unnecessarily, we 
therefore undertake to assert as fact, what we at the outset con- 
fess that we have not the means of knowing to be such ; which 
is, in itself, falsehood : and we do all this for the sake of grati- 
fying a contemptible vanity, or a wicked envy ; or, what is 
scarcely less reprehensible, from a thoughtless love of talking. 

2. There is no offence by which we are excited to a livelier 
or more just indignation, than by the misinterpretation of our 
own motives. This quick sensitiveness in ourselves, should 
admonish us of the guilt which we incur, when we traduce the 
motives of others. 

By the same rule, we are forbidden to lessen the estimation 
in which others are held, by ridicule, mimicry, or by any means 
by which they are brought into contempt. No man can be 
greatly respected by those to whom he is the frequent subject 
of laughter. It is but a very imperfect excuse for conduct of 
this sort, to plead that we do not mean any harm. What do 
we mean 1 Surely, reasonable beings should be prepared to 
answer this question. Were the witty calumniator to stand 
concealed, and hear himself made the subject of remarks pre- 
cisely similar to those in which he indulges respecting others, 
he would have a very definite conception of what others mean. 
Let him, then, carry the lesson home to his own bosom. 

Nor is this evil the less for the veil under which it is fre- 
quently and hypocritically hidden. Men and women propagate 
slander under the cover of secrecy, supposing that, by uttering 
it under this injunction, the guilt is of course removed. But it 
is not so. The simple question is this : Does my duty either 
to God or to man require me to publish this, which will injure 
another? If it do, publish it wherever that duty requires, and 
do it fearlessly. If it do not, it is just as great guilt to publish 
it to one as to another. We are bound, in all such cases, to 
ask ourselves the question, Am I under obligation to tell this 
fact to this person 1 If not, I am under the contrary obligation 
to be silent. And still more. This injunction of secrecy is 
generally nothing better than the mere dictate of cowardice. — 
We wish to gratify our love of detraction, but are afraid of the 
consequences to ourselves. We therefore converse under this 



PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. 253 

injunction, that the injury to another may be with impunity to 
ourselves. And hence it is, that in this manner the vilest and 
most injurious calumnies are generally circulated. 



ON THE REGULATION AND CONTROL OF THE SUCCES- 
SION OF OUR THOUGHTS.— Asekcrombie. 

This remarkable faculty is very much under the influence of 
cultivation, and on the power so acquired depends the important 
habit of regular and connected thinking. It is primarily a vol- 
untary act; and in the exercise of it in different individuals, 
there are the most remarkable differences. Tn some, the thoughts 
are allowed to wander at large, without any regulation, or are 
devoted only to frivolous and transient objects ; while others 
habitually exercise over them a stern control, directing them to 
subjects of real importance, and prosecuting these in a regular 
and connected manner. This important habit gains strength 
by exercise, and nothing, certainly, has a greater influence in 
giving tone and consistency to the whole character. It may 
not, indeed, be going too far to assert that our condition, in the 
scale both of moral and intellectual beings, is in a great meas- 
ure determined by the control which we have acquired over the 
succession of our thoughts, and by the subjects on which they 
are habitually exercised. 

The regulation of the thoughts is, therefore, a high concern ; 
in the man who devotes his attention to it as a study of supreme 
importance, the first great source of astonishment will be, the 
manner in which his thoughts have been occupied in many an 
hour and many a day that has passed over him. The leading 
objects to which the thoughts may be directed are referable to 
three classes : 

1. The ordinary engagements of life, or matters of business, 
with which every man is occupied in one degree or another ; 
including concerns of domestic arrangement, personal comfort, 
and necessary recreation. Each of these deserves a certain 
degree of attention, but this requires to be strictly guided by its 
real and relative importance ; and it is entirely unworthy of a 
sound and regulated mind to have the attention solely or chiefly 
occupied with matters of personal comfort, or of trivial impor- 
tance, calculated merely to afford amusement for the passing 
hour. 

22 



254 young lady's reader. 

2. Visions of the imagination, built up by the mind itself 
when it has nothing better to occupy it. The mind cannot be 
idle, and when it is not occupied by subjects of a useful kind, 
it will find a resource in those which are frivolous or hurtful, — 
in mere visions, waking dreams, or fictions, in which the mind 
wanders from scene to scene, unrestrained by reason, probabil- 
ity, or truth. No habit can be more opposed to a healthy con- 
dition of the mental powers ; and none ought to be more care- 
fully guarded against by every one who would cultivate the high 
acquirement of a well-regulated mind. 

3. Entirely opposed to the latter of these modes, and distinct 
also in a great measure from the former, is the habit of follow- 
ing out a connected chain of thoughts on subjects of impor- 
tance and of truth, whenever the mind is disengaged from the 
proper and necessary attention to the ordinary transactions of 
life. The particular subjects to which the thoughts are direct- 
ed in cultivating this habit, will vary in different individuals ; 
but the consideration of the relative value of them does not be- 
long to our present subject. The purpose of these observations 
is simply to impress the value of that regulation of the thoughts, 
by which they can always find an occupation of interest and 
importance, distinct from the ordinary transactions of life, or the 
mere pursuit of frivolous engagements ; and also totally dis- 
tinct from that destructive habit, by which the mind is allowed 
to run to waste amid visions and fictions unworthy of a waking 
man. 



DREAMS.— Stewart. 

Our dreams are frequently suggested to us by bodily sensa- 
tions : and with these, it is well known, from what we experi- 
ence while awake, that particular ideas are frequently very 
strongly associated. I have been told by a friend, that having 
occasion, in consequence of an indisposition, to apply a bottle 
of hot water to his feet when he went to bed, he dreamed that 
he was making a journey to the top of Mount iEtna, and that he 
found the heat of the ground almost insupportable. Another 
person, having a blister applied to his head, dreamed that he 
was scalped by a party of Indians. I believe every one who is 
in the habit of dreaming, will recollect instances, in his own 
case, of a similar nature. 



PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. 255 

Our dreams are influenced by the prevailing temper of the 
mind ; and vary, in their complexion, according as our habitual 
disposition, at the time, inclines us to cheerfulness or to melan- 
choly. Not that this observation holds without exception ; but 
it holds so generally, as must convince us, that the state of our 
spirits has some effect on our dreams, as well as on our wak- 
ing thoughts. Indeed, in the latter case, no less than in the 
former, this effect may be counteracted, or modified, by various 
other circumstances. 

After having made a uarrow escape from any alarming dan- 
ger, we are apt to awake, in the course of our sleep, with sud- 
den startings, imagining that we are drowning, or on the brink 
of a precipice. A severe misfortune, which has affected the 
mind deeply, influences our dreams in a similar way, and sug- 
gests to us a variety of adventures, analogous, in some measure, 
to that event from which our distress arises. Such, according 
to Virgil, were the dreams of the forsaken Dido. 

•' Agit ipse furentem 

In somnis ferus iEneas ; semperque relinqui 
Sola sibi; semper longam incomitata videtur 
Ire viam, et Tyrios deserta quaerere terra." 

Our dreams are influenced by our prevailing habits of associ- 
ation while awake. 

In a former part of this work, I considered the extent of that 
power which the mind may acquire over the train of its thoughts ; 
and I observed, that those intellectual diversities among men, 
which we commonly refer to peculiarities of genius, are, at 
least in a great measure, resolvable into differences in their 
habits of association One man possesses a rich and beautiful 
fancy, which is at all times obedient to his will. Another pos- 
sesses a quickness of recollection, which enables him, at a mo- 
ment's warning, to bring together all the results of his past ex- 
perience, and of his past reflections, which can be of use for 
illustrating any proposed subject. A third can, without effort, 
collect his attention to the most abstract questions in philoso- 
phy ; can perceive, at a glance, the shortest and the most effect- 
ual process for arriving at the truth, and can banish from his 
mind every extraneous idea, which fancy or casual association 
may suggest to distract his thoughts, or to mislead his judg- 
ment. A fourth unites all these powers in a capacity of per- 
ceiving truth with an almost intuitive rapidity, and in an elo- 
quence which enables him to command, at pleasure, whatever 



256 young lady's reader. 

his memory and his fancy can supply, to illustrate and to adorn 
it. The occasional exercise which such men make of their 
powers, may undoubtedly be said, in one sense, to be unpremed- 
itated or unstudied ; but they all indicate previous habits of 
meditation or study, as unquestionably, as the dexterity of the 
expert accountant, or the rapid execution of the professional 
musician. 

From what has been said, it is evident, that a train of thought 
which, in one man, would require a painful effort of study, may, 
in another, be almost spontaneous ; nor is it to be doubted, that 
the reveries of studious men, even when they allow, as much 
as they can, their thoughts to follow their own course, are more 
or less connected together by those principles of association, 
which their favorite pursuits tend more particularly to strengthen. 

The influence of the same habits may be traced distinctly in 
sleep. There are probably few mathematicians, who have not 
dreamed of an interesting problem, and who have not even fan- 
cied that they were prosecuting the investigation of it with 
much success. They whose ambition leads them to the study 
of eloquence, are frequently conscious, during sleep, of a re- 
newal of their daily occupations ; and sometimes feel them- 
selves possessed of a fluency of speech, which they never ex- 
perienced before. The poet, in his dreams, is transported into 
Elysium, and leaves the vulgar and unsatisfactory enjoyments 
of humanity, to dwell in those regions of enchantment and rap- 
ture, which have been created by the divine imaginations of 
Virgil and of Tasso. 

" And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams, 
Raising a world of" gayer tinct and grace ; 
O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams, 
That play'd, in waving lights, from place to place, 
And shed a roseate smile on Nature's face. 
Not Titan's pencil e'er could so array, 
So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space ; 
Nor could it e'er such melting forms display, 
As loose on flowery beds alLlanguishingly lay. 

No, fair illusions ! artful phantoms, no ! 
My muse will not attempt your fairy land : 
She has no colors, that like your's can glow ; 
To catch your vivid scenes, too gross her hand." 

As a farther proof that the succession of our thoughts in 
dreaming is influenced by our prevailing habits of association, 
it may be remarked, that the scenes and occurrences which 



PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. 257 

most frequently present themselves to the mind while we are 
asleep, are the scenes and occurrences of childhood and early 
youth. The facility of association is then much greater than 
in more advanced years ; and although, during the day, the 
memory of the events thus associated, may be banished by the 
objects and pursuits which press upon our senses, it retains a 
more permanent hold of the mind than any of our subsequent 
acquisitions ; and, like the knowledge which we possess of our 
mother tongue, is, as it were, interwoven and incorporated with 
all its most essential habits. Accordingly, in old men, whose 
thoughts are, in a great measure, disengaged from the world, 
the transactions of their middle age, which once seemed so im- 
portant, are often obliterated ; while the mind dwells, as in a 
dream, on the sports and the companions of their infancy. 

I shall only observe farther, on this head, that in our dreams, 
as well as when awake, we occasionally make use of words as 
an instrument of thought. Such dreams, however, do not af- 
fect the mind with such emotions of pleasure and of pain, as 
those in which the imagination is occupied with particular ob- 
jects of sense. The effect of philosophical studies, in habitu- 
ating the mind to the almost constant employment of this in- 
strument, and of consequence, its effect in weakening the im- 
agination, was formerly remarked. If I am not mistaken, the 
influence of these circumstances may also be traced in the his- 
tory of our dreams; which, in youth, commonly involve, in a 
much greater degree, the exercise of imagination, and affect the 
mind with much more powerful emotions, than when we begin 
to employ our maturer faculties in more general and abstract 
speculations. 



SIGNS.— Sir H. Davy. 

Poietes. — I hope we shall have another good day to-morrow, 
for the clouds are red in the west. 

Physicus. — I have no doubt of it, for the red has a tint of 
purple 

Halieus. — Do you know why this tint portends fine weather ? 

Phys. — The air, when dry, I believe, refracts more red, or 
heat-making rays ; and as dry air is not perfectly transparent, 
they are again reflected in the horizon. I have generally ob- 
served a coppery, or vellow sunset to fortell rain ; but, as an in- 
22* 



258 young lady's header. 

dication of wet weather approaching, nothing is more certain 
than a halo round the moon, which is produced by the precipi- 
tated water ; and the larger the circle, the nearer the clouds, 
and consequently the more ready to fall. 

Hal. — I have often observed that the old proverb is correct — 

A rainbow in the morning is the shepherd's warning : 
A rainbow at night is the shepherd's delight. 

Can you explain this omen ? 

Phys. — A rainbow can only occur when the clouds contain- 
ing, or depositing the rain, are opposite to the sun, — and in the 
evening the rainbow is in the east, and in the morning in the 
west ; and as our heavy rains, in this climate, are usually 
brought by the westerly wind, a rainbow in the west indicates 
that the bad weather is on the road, by the wind, to us ; where- 
as the rainbow in the east, proves that the rain in these clouds 
is passing from us. 

Poiet. — I have often observed that when the swallows fly 
high, fine weather is to be expected or continued ; but when 
they fly low, and close to the ground, rain is almost surely ap- 
proaching. Can you account for this ? 

Hal. — Swallows follow the flies and gnats, and flies and 
gnats usually delight in warm strata of air ; and as warm air is 
lighter, and usually moister than cold air, when the warm strata 
of air are high, there is less chance of moisture being thrown 
down from them by the mixture with cold air ; but when the 
warm and moist air is close to the surface, it is almost certain, 
that, as the cold air flows down into it, a deposition of water 
will take place. 

Poiet. — I have often seen sea-gulls assemble on the land, 
and have almost always observed that very stormy and rainy 
weather was approaching. I conclude that these animals, sen- 
sible of a current of air approaching from the ocean, retire to 
the land to shelter themselves from the storm. 

Ornither. — No such thing. The storm is their element ; and 
the little petrel enjoys the heaviest gale, because, living on the 
smaller sea insects, he is sure to find his food in the spray of a 
heavy wave — and you may see him flitting above the edge of 
the highest surge. I believe that the reason of this migration 
of sea-gulls, and other sea birds, to the land, is their security of 
finding food. They may be observed, at this time, feeding 
greedily on the earth worms and larvae, driven out of the ground 
by severe floods ; and the fish, on which they prey in fine 



PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. 259 

weather in the sea, leave the surface, when storms prevail, and 
go deeper. The search after food, as we agreed on a former 
occasion, is the principal cause why animals change their pla- 
ces. The different tribes of the wading birds always migrate 
when rain is about to take place ; and I remember once, in 
Italy, having been long waiting, ill the end of March, for the 
arrival of the double snipe in the Campagna of Rome, — a great 
flight appeared on the 3d of April, and the day after, heavy rain . 
set in, which greatly interfered with my sport. The vulture, 
upon the same principle, follows armies ; and I have no doubt 
that the augury of the ancients was a good deal founded upon 
the observation of the instincts of birds. There are many su- 
perstitions of the vulgar, owing to the same source. For 
anglers, in spring, it is always unlucky to see single magpies, — 
but two may be always regarded as a favorable omen ; and the 
reason is, that in cold and stormy weather, one magpie alone 
leaves the nest in search of food, the other remaining sitting 
upon the eggs, or the young ones ; but when two go out to- 
gether, the weather is warm and mild, and thus favorable for 
fishing. 

Poiet. — The singular connexions of causes and effects, to 
which you have just referred, make superstition less to be won- 
dered at, particularly amongst the vulgar ; and when two facts, 
naturally unconnected, have been accidentally coincident, it is 
not singular that this coincidence should have been observed 
and registered, and that omens of the most absurd kind, should 
be trusted in. In the west of England, half a century ago, a 
particular hollow noise on the sea coast, was referred to a 
spirit, or goblin, called Bucca, and was supposed to foretell a 
shipwreck : the philosopher knows that sound travels much 
faster than currents in the air — and the sound always foretold 
the approach of a very heavy storm, which seldom takes place 
on that wild and rocky coast, surrounded as it is by the Atlan- 
tic, without a shipwreck on some part of its extensive shores. 



FRIENDSHIP— Brown. 

How great a blessing is it, to have bosoms ever ready for 
receiving and preserving faithfully, whatever we may wish to 
confide, whose conscious memory of our actions we may fear 
less than our own,— whose discourse may alleviate our anxiety, 
whose counsel may fix our own doubtful judgment, whose hilarity 
may dissipate our sorrow, whose very aspect may delight. 



260 young lady's reader. 

There is. unquestionably, in the very presence of a friend, a 
delight of this sort, which has no other source than the con- 
sciousness of the presence of one who feels for us the regard 
which we feel for him. " When I ask myself," says Mon- 
taigne, after a very lively description which he gives of his af- 
fection for his friend, — " When I ask myself, whence it is, that 
I feel this joy, this ease, this serenity, when I see him, — it is 
because it is he, it is besause it is I, I answer ; and this is all 
which I can say." 

On the delights which friendship affords, however, it would 
be idle to expatiate. There is no subject, scarcely even with 
the exception of love itself, on which so much has been written, 
by philosophers and declaimers of all sorts, in prose and poetry. 
I might repeat to you innumerable common places on the sub- 
ject, and prove to you, logically, by many arguments, that what 
you have felt to be delightful, is delightful. For the evidence 
of this, however, I may safely leave you to your own conscious- 
ness. You have many friendships, and, perhaps, your most 
important and permanent friendships still to form ; but if you 
have never yet felt what friendship is, there is little reason to 
think that you ever will feel it ; and if you have felt it, though 
you may not yet have been in situations that might enable you 
to derive from it all the advantages which it is capable of yield- 
ing, the very consciousness of the regard itself will enable you 
to anticipate them all. He who has never been in poverty, in 
long and almost hopeless disease, in any deep distress of any 
sort, may yet know, what consolation the attentions of friendship 
would administer to the sorrow which he has never felt ; and if 
he ever feel the sorrow and the consolation, will not acquire any 
new knowledge of the extent of the delightful influence which 
he had long known how to appreciate, but only a new cause of 
gratitude to him, who, in doing much, had done only what it 
was expected of his ready tenderness and generosity to do. 
" There is indeed,'' as it has been truly said, " only one species 
of misery which friendship cannot comfort, — the misery of atro- 
cious guilt, — but hearts capable of genuine friendship, are not 
capable of committing crimes. Though it cannot comfort guilt, 
however, which ought not to be comforted, friendship is still 
able to console, at least the too powerful remembrance of our 
faults and weaknesses ; its voice reconciles us to ourselves ; it 
shows us the means of rising again from our fall ; and our fall 
itself leads others to forget, in the same manner as it leads us 
to forget it, by recalling to us, and to others, our estimable qual- 



PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. 261 

ities, and prompting us to the exercise of them. Friendship 
repairs every thing — remedies every thing — comforts every 
thing." 

Friendship, however, is not a source of pleasure only ; it is 
also a source of duty ; and it is chiefly in this respect that we 
are now to regard it. 

The duties that relate to friendship may be considered in 
three lights — as they regard the commencement of it — the con- 
tinuance of it — and its close. 

Our first duties are those which relate to the choice of a 
friend. 

If we were sufliciently aware, how great a command over 
our whole life, we give to any one whom we admit to our inti- 
macy — how ready we are to adopt the errors of those whom we 
love ; and to regard their very faults, not merely as excusable, 
but as objects of imitation, or at least to imitate them without 
thinking whether they ought to be imitated, and without know- 
ing even that we are imitating them, — we should be a little 
more careful than we usually are, in making a choice, which is 
to decide in a great measure, whether we are to be virtuous or 
vicious, happy or miserable, — or which, in many cases, if we 
still continue happy, upon the whole, must often disturb our 
happiness ; and, if we still continue virtuous, make virtue a 
greater effort. " The bandage which, in our poetic fictions, we 
give to Love" says the Marchioness de Lambert, " we have 
never thought of hanging over the clear and piercing eyes of 
Friendship. Friendship has no blindness : it examines before 
it engages, and attaches itself only to merit. " The picture is 
a beautiful one ; but it is a picture rather of what friendship 
ought to be, than of what friendship always is. The bandage, 
indeed, is not so thick as that which covers the eyes of love, and 
it is not so constantly worn ; but when it is worn, though it ad- 
raits some light, it does not admit all. We must tear it ofF, before 
we see clearly ; or we must be careful, at least, what hands 
they are which we permit to put it on. 

It is before we yield ourselves, then, to the regard, that we 
should strive to estimate the object of it, and to estimate his 
value, not by the gratification of a single day, but by the influ- 
ence which he may continue to exercise on our life. If friend- 
ship, indeed, were a mere pastime, that ended with the amuse- 
ment of some idle hours, it might be allowed to us to select, for 
our companions, those who might best amuse our idleness ; it 
wuold be enough for us, then, that our friend was gay, and had 



262 young lady's reader. 

the happy talent of making others gay. If it were a mere bar- 
ter of courtesy, for a little wealth or distinction, it might be al- 
lowed to us in a like manner, to select those whose power and 
opulence seemed to promise, to our ambition and avarice, the 
best return of gain ; it would then be enough, if our friend pos- 
sessed a station that might enable him to elevate us, not perhaps, 
to his own rank, but at least a little higher than we are. Then, 
indeed, the propriety or impropriety of friendship might be es- 
timated as readily, and almost in the same manner, as we esti- 
mate the worth of any common marketable commodity. But 
if it be an alliance of heart with heart, — if, in giving our sorrows 
or projects to be shared by another, we are to partake, in our 
turn, his sorrows or designs, whatever they may be, — to con- 
sider the virtue of him whom we admit to this diffusion with us 
of one common being, and to yield our affection, only as we dis- 
cover the virtue which alone is worthy of it, is almost the same 
thing as to consult for our own virtue. The vice of him whom 
we love, — the vice which we must palliate to every censurer, 
and which we strive to palliate even to our own severe judg- 
ment, will soon cease to appear to us what it is ; and it will 
require but a little longer habit of palliation, and a little longer 
intercourse of cordial regard, to win from us that occasional 
conformity, which, with us too, may soon become a habit. 
Even though we escape from the vices of the wicked, however, 
it would be impossible for us to escape from their misery. We 
must share the embarrassment and vexations, the fear and the 
disgrace, to which their moral errors most inevitably lead them ; 
and, though the friendship of the virtuous had no other superi- 
ority of attraction than this one, it would still be enough to de- 
termine the choice of the wise, — that, in becoming the friends 
of the good, they would have nothing to fear but misfortunes, 
which require pity only, and consolation, — not shame ; that, if 
they had no reason to blush for themselves, they would have no 
reason to blush for those, whom, by their selection, they had 
exhibited to the world as images of their own character ; nor 
to feel, in the very innocence of their own heart, by the moral 
perplexities in which their sympathies involve them, if not what 
is hateful in guilt, at least all that is wretched in it. 

A single line of one of our old poets conveys, in this respect, 
a most sententious lesson, in bidding us consider what sort of 
a friend he is likely to prove to us, who has been the destroyer, 
or at least the constant disquieter, of his own happiness. 

"See if he be 
Friend to himself, who would be friend to thee." 



263 



EPISTOLARY WRITING 



TO MISS BAILLIE.— Sir Walter Scott. 

Your kind letter, my dear friend, heaps coals of fire on my 
head, for I should have written to you, in common gratitude, 
long since; but I waited till I should read through the Miscel- 
lany with some attention, which as I have not done, I can scare 
say much to the purpose, so far as that is concerned. My own 
production sate in the porch like an evil thing, and scared me 
from proceeding farther than to hurry through your composi- 
tions, with which I was delighted, and two or three others. 
In my own case, I have almost a nervous reluctance to look 
back on any recent poetical performance of my own. I may 
almost say with Macbeth, — 

" I am afraid to think what I have done. 
Look on't again I dare not. 

But the best of the matter is, that your purpose has been so sat- 
isfactorily answered — and great reason have you to be proud of 
your influence with the poem-buyers as well as the poem- 
makers. By the by, you know your request first set me ham- 
mering on an old tale of the Swintons, from whom, by the 
mother's side, I am descended, and the tinkering work I made 
of it, warmed the heart of a cousin in the East Indies, a descend- 
ant of the renowned Sir Allan, who has sent his kindred poet 
by this fleet, not a butt of sack, but a pipe of most particular 
Maderia. You and Mrs. Agnes shall have a glass of it when 
you come to Abbotsford, for I always consider your last only 
a payment to account — you did not stay half the time you 
promised. J am going out there on Friday, and shall see all 
my family re-united around me for the first time these many 
years. They make a very good figure as ' honest men and bonny 
lasses.' I read Miss Fanshawe's pieces, which are quite beau- 
tiful. Mrs. Hemans is some what too poetical for my taste— - 
too many flowers, I mean, and too little fruit — but that may be 
the cynical criticism of an elderly gentleman : it is certain that 
when I was young, I read verses of every kind with infinitely 
more indulgence, because with more pleasure than I now do — 



264 young lady's reader. 

the more shame for me now to refuse the complaisance which I 
have so often to solicit. I am hastening to think prose a better 
thing than verse, and if you have any hopes to convince me to 
the contrary, it must be by writing and publishing another vol- 
ume of plays as fast as possible. I think they would be most 
favorably received ; and beg like Burns, to 

" tell you of mine and Scotland's drouth, 

Your servant's humble " 

A young friend of mine, Lord Francis Gower, has made a very 
fair attempt to translate Goethe's unstranlatable play of Faust, 
or Faustus. He gives also a version of Schiller's very fine 
poem on Casting the Bell, which I think equals Mr. Sothe- 
by's — nay, privately, (for tell it not in Epping Forest, whisper 
it not in Hempsted), rather outdoes our excellent friend. I 
have not compared them minutely, however. As for Mr. How- 
ison, such is the worldly name of Polydore, I never saw such 
a change in my life upon a young man. It may be fourteen 
years, or thereabouts, since he introduced himself to me, by 
sending me some most excellent verses for a youth sixteen years 
old. I asked him to Ashestiel, and he came — a thin hectic 
youth, with eye of dark fire, a cheek that colored on the slight- 
est emotion, and a mind fraught with feeling of the tender and 
the beautiful, and eager for poetical fame- — otherwise, of so little 
acquaintance with the world and the world's ways, that a suck- 
ing turkey might have been his tutor. I was rather a bear-like 
nurse for such a lamb-like charge. We could hardly indeed 
associate together, for I was then eternally restless, and he as 
sedentary. He could neither fish, shoot, or course — he could 
not bear the inside of the carriage with the ladies, for it made 
him sick, nor the outside with my boys, for it made him giddy. 
He could not walk, for it fatigued him, nor ride, for he fell off. 
I did all 1 could to make him happy, and it was not till he had 
caught two colds and one sprain, besidps risking his life in the 
Tweed, that 1 gave up all attempts to convert him to the things 
of this world. Our acquaintance after this languished, and at 
last fell asleep, till one day last year, I met at Lockhart's a thin 
consumptive looking man, bent double with study, and whose 
eyes seemed to have been extinguished almost by poring over 
the midnight lamp, though protected by immense green spec- 
tacles. I then found that my poet had turned metaphysician, 
and that these spectacles were to assist him in gazing into the 
millstone of moral philosophy. He looked at least twice as old 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 265 

as he really is, and has since published a book, very small in 
size, but, from its extreme abstracted docrines, more difficult to 
comprehend than any I ever opened in my life. 1 will take care 
he has one of my copies of the Miscellany. If he gets into the 
right line, he will do something remarkable yet. 

We saw, you will readily suppose, a great deal of Miss 
Edgeworth, and two very nice girls, her younger sisters, It is 
scarcely possible to say more of this very remarkable person, 
than that she not only completely answered, but exceeded the 
expectations which I had formed. I am particularly pleased 
with the naivete' and good humored ardor of mind which she 
unites with such formidable powers of acute observation. In 
external appearance, she is quite the fairy of our nursery-tale, 
the Whippity Stourie, if you remember such a sprite, who 
came flying through the window to work all sorts of marvels. 
I will never believe but what she has a wand in her pocket, and 
pulls it out to conjure a little before she begins to draw those very 
striking pictures of manners. I am grieved to say, that, since 
they left Edinburgh on a tour to the Highlands, they have been 
detained at Forres by an erysipelas breaking out on Miss Edge- 
worth's face. They have been twelve days there, and are now 
returning southwards, as a letter from Harriet informs me. I 
hope soon to have them at Abbotsford, where we will take good 
care of them, and the invalid in particular. What would I give 
to have you and Mrs. Agnes to meet them, and what canty 
cracks we would set up about the days of langsyne ! The in- 
creasing powers of steam, which, like you, I look on half-proud, 
half-sad, half-angry, and half-pleased, in doing so much for the 
commercial world, promise something also for the sociable ; and, 
like Prince Houssein's tapestry, will, I think, one day waft 
friends together in the course of a few hours, and, for aught we 
may be able to tell, bring Hampstead and Abbotsford within the 
distance of, — ' Will you dine with us quietly to-morrow ?' I wish 
I could advance this happy abridgement of time and space, so 
as to make it serve my present wishes. 



TO MISS EDGEWORTH —Sir W. Scott, 

Miss Harriet had the goodness to give me an account of your 
safe arrival in the Green Isle, of which I was, sooth to say, ex- 
tremely glad : for I had my own private apprehensions that your 
very disagreeable disorder might return while you were among 

23 



266 young lady's reader. 

strangers, and in our rugged climate. I now conclude you are 
settled quietly at home, and looking back on recollections of 
mountains, and vallies, and pipes, and clans, and cousins, and 
masons, and carpenters, and puppy-dogs, and all the confusion 
of Abbotsford, as one does on the recollections of a dream. We 
shall not easily forget the vision of having seen you and our two 
young friends, and your kind indulgence for all our humors, sober 
and fantastic, rough or smooth. Mamma writes to make her 
own acknowledgements for your very kind attention about the 
cobweb stockings, which reached us under the omnipotent frank 
of Croker, who, like a true Irish heart, never scruples stretching 
his powers a little to serve a friend. 

We are all here much as you left us, only in possession of our 
drawing room, and glorious with our gas-lights, which as yet 
have only involved us once in total darkness — once in a tempo- 
rary eclipse. In both cases the remedy was easy, and the cause 
obvious ; and if the gas has no greater objections than I have yet 
seen or can anticipate, it is soon like to put wax and mutton-suet 
entirely out of fashion. I have recovered, by great accident, 
another verse or two of Miss Sophia's beautiful Irish air ; it is 
only curious as hinting at the cause of the poor damsel of the 
red petticoat's deep dolour : — 

'I went to the mill, but the miller was gone, 
I sate me down and cried ochone, 
To think on the days that are past and gone, 
Of Dickie Macphalion that's slain. 
Shool, shool, &c. 

I sold my rock, I sold my reel, 
And sae hae I my spinning-wheel, 
And all to buy a cap of steel, 
For Dickie Macphalion that's slain. 
Shool, shool,' &c. &c. 

But who was Dickie Macphalion for whom this lament was 
composed 1 Who was the Pharaoh for whom the p3 r ramid was 
raised ? The questions are equally dubious and equally impor- 
tant ; but as the one, we may reasonably suppose, was a king 
of Egypt, so I think we may guess the other to have been a 
captain of Rapparees : since the ladies, God bless them, honor 
with the deepest of their lamentations, gallants who live wildly, 
die bravely, and scorn to survive until they become old and not 
worth weeping for. So much for Dickie Macphalion, who, I 
dare say, was in his day 'a proper young man.' 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 267 

We have had Sir Humphrey Davy here for a day or two — 
very pleasant and instructive, and Will Rose for a month — that 
is, coming and going. Lockhart has been pleading at the cir- 
cuit for a clansman of mine, who, having sustained an affront 
from two men on the road home from Earlstown fair, nobly way- 
laid and murdered them both, single-handed. He also cut off 
their noses, which was carrying the matter rather too far, and 
so the jury thought — so my namesake must strap for it, as 
many of The Rough Clan have done before him. After this, 
Lockhart and I went to Sir Henry Stewarts, to examine his 
process of transplanting trees. He exercises wonderful power 
certainly over the vegetable world, and has made his trees dance 
about as merrily as ever did Orpheus ; but he has put me out 
of conceit with my profession of a landscape-gardener, now I 
see so few brains are necessary for a stock in trade. I wish 
Miss Harriet would dream no more ominous visions about Spi- 
cie. The poor thing has been very ill of that fatal disorder 
proper to the canine race, called, par excellence, the distemper. 
I have prescribed for her, as who should say thus you would 
doctor a dog, and I hope to bring her through, as she is a very 
affectionate little creature, and of a fine race. She has still an 
odd wheezing, however, which makes me rather doubtful of 
success. The Lockharts are both well, and at present our 
lodgers, together with John Hugh, or, as he calls himself, Don- 
ichue, which sounds like one of your old Irish kings. They all 
join in every thing kind and affectionate to you and the young 
ladies, and best compliments to your brother. — Believe me, 
ever, dear Miss Edgeworth, yours, with the greatest truth and 
respect. Walter Scott. 



TO MRS. H. MORE.— Countess Cremorne. 

I almost scruple intruding upon you, my deti" Mrs. More, 
knowing as I do with sorrow, that you are so very far from well ; 
and also knowing how many letters are pouring in upon you 
from all your friends and correspondents ; but I cannot help 
wishing to tell you how gratefully I feel your kindness in send- 
ing me your most valuable book : I wish I could give you the 
satisfaction of knowing with what sort of pleasure I have been 
reading it. I wish you could have seen me reading it, as 1 do 
the letters of a few beloved friends,— -slowly, for fear of coming 
to the end ; and reading those parts over and over again which 



268 young lady's reader. 

most delight, and I hope, mend my heart. You know, my dear 
madam, that I do not deal in compliments ; in sincerity and 
truth let me assure you, that I do not think T ever read a book 
which interested me quite so much. It will, I hope and trust, 
do extensive good in these most perilous times. I hear our dear 
bishop of London mentioned it in his sermon last Sunday, at 
St James' Church, in a manner the most honorable (if I may be 
allowed the expression) to himself as well as to you. Will you 
allow me to tell you that I could not read the eighty-sixth page 
of the first volume with dry eyes ? but my tears were tears of 
joy and gratitude : I felt that I had not (to make use of your own 
beautiful words) " blotted out the spring from the year," by rob- 
bing my dear little girl (when she was lent to me) of the "sim- 
ple joys, and the unbought delights which naturally belonged to 
her blooming season ;" her pleasures were, gathering for me or 
for her father, the first cowslip ; watching the bees at work ; or, 
full of raptures, bounding before us at the first singing of the 
cuckoo or the nightingale ; she never was at a play, or opera, or 
a baby ball, and I believe there never was a happier child. Our 
son, too, was brought up in the same simplicity. But I am in- 
terrupted by a kind visit from Mr. Gisborne, and I am ashamed 
to see how I have been writing about my children ; but I will 
not make an apology ; I am sure your kind heart will make it 
for me. I shall rejoice sincerely in hearing that your health is 
restored, and in seeing you, before it be very long, at Fulham 
and at Chelsea. I trust you are very thankful to God for being- 
enabled to be such a bright light in this dark bewildered world. 
May He give you every real comfort here, and crown you with 
everlasting blessedness hereafter. 

Pray believe me, my dear Mrs. More, to be your affectionate 
and grateful F. Cremorne. 



PLINY TO HISPULA. 

As I remember the great affection which was between you 
and your excellent brother, and know you love his daughter as 
your own, so as not only to express the tenderness of the best 
of aunts, but even to supply that of the best of fathers, I am 
sure it will give you pleasure to hear that she proves worthy of 
her father, worthy of you, and worthy of your and her ances- 
tors. Her ingenuity is admirable ; her frugality is extraordina- 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 269 

ry. She loves me, the surest pledge of her virtue, and adds to 
this a wonderful disposition to learning, which she has acquired 
from her affection to me. She reads my writings, studies them, 
and even gets them by heart. You would smile to see the con- 
cern she is in when I have a cause to plead, and the joy she 
shows when it is over. She finds means to have the first news 
brought her of the success I meet with in court ; how I am 
heard ; and what decree is made. If I recite any thing in pub- 
lic, she cannot refrain from placing herself privately in some 
corner to hear, where she feasts upon my applauses ; sometimes 
she sings my verses, and accompanies them with the lute, 
without any masters, except love, the best of instructors. 
From these instances I take the most certain omens of our per- 
petual and increasing happiness, since her affection is not 
founded on my youth or person, which must gradually decay ; 
but she is in love with the immortal part of me, my glory and 
reputation. Nor, indeed, could less be expected, from one who 
had the happiness to receive her education from you ; who in 
your house, was accustomed to every thing that was virtuous 
and decent, and even began to love me on your recommenda- 
tion. For as you had always had the greatest respect for my 
mother, you were pleased, from my infancy, to form me, to 
commend me, and kindly to presage that I should be one day 
what my wife fancies I am : accept, therefore, our united 
thanks ; mine, that you have bestowed her on me; and her's, 
that you have given me to her as a mutual grant of joy and 
felicity. 



TO LADY O. SPARROW.— Mrs. H. More. 

My dear Lady Olivia, — -I appear to you in a new character, 
that of a prompt and forward correspondent. Were you to 
give this representation of me to my friends, they would never 
suspect the portrait to be mine ; but having occasion to send a 
request to Mr. Addington, though I wrote to you only two days 
ago by Lord Gambier, I could not resist the temptation of 
thanking you for your kind little volunteer letter, received last 
night. One gift is worth two debts ; to the latter justice obli- 
ges us, the former is more acceptable, as being more the fruit 
of affection. 

You are to understand that I have a particular notion about 
correspondence. I would not give much for what is called a 

23* 



270 young lady's reader. 

fine letter, even from those who are most gifted in writing ; if 
I want sentiment, or fine things, I can get them in books. 
What I want in a letter, is to know what my friend is doing, or 
thinking, or saying. Now this I cannot find in a book, nor can 
I by this mode get at the heart and mind of the writer, as I can 
by little unpremeditated details. This is one of my objections 
in general to the publication of letters ; if they are honest, and 
open, and faithful, the peculiar interest they excite is in the 
mind of the person to whom they are written ; hints and de- 
tails are nothing to the world, which is only looking for fine 
sentences and polished periods. Cowper's letters are all ease 
and kindness, and feeling and affection — they were written for 
his correspondents. What Miss Seward's are I need not say, 
except that good taste revolts at them, and truth and candor ab- 
hor them ; they were written for the public. But I did not in- 
tend to say a word of all this when I began. I only meant to 
say how delighted I was with your dinner, and with your kind- 
ness in being impatient to make me in some measure a partaker 
of a society of which I should have been so happy to partake. 

If you see Mr. Way again, have the goodness to ask him if 
he has received a letter from me. Not knowing his address in 
town, I enclosed it to the bishop of St. David's, who had per- 
haps left London ; if so, it will follow him to Durham, and he 
will probably forward it to Mr. W. to Stanstead Park. He is 
a pretty sort of a geographer, to think that place comparable 
with Brampton ! 

I am once more going through my darling Archbishop Leigh- 
ton's Commentary on St. Peter. It is a mine of intellectual 
and spiritual wealth. Each chapter would make a volume of 
modern theology. Nothing is superficially described. He 
always goes to the bottom, and, without wearying the reader, 
hardly leaves any thing unsaid : he always catches hold on the 
heart. 

Are you acquainted with Lady B ? I have not seen her 

since her marriage, but she promised to be a most interesting 
character. I saw some letters from her on her change of situ- 
ation, full of such right views and christian plans and resolu- 
tions, as tended to confirm my opinion that she would prove 
worthy of her father. He is now most conscientiously be- 
stowing his patronage on none but exemplary characters, and is 
indeed a prelate worthy of olden time. Adieu, my dearest Lady 
Olivia ; I commend you and yours to your God and their God. 
Yours most faithfully, H. More. 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 271 



TO A SCOTCH COUSIN.— Miss Sinclair. 

My dear Cousin, — Here are we, safely deposited among the 
rural solitudes and romantic beauties of Hyde Park ! London, 
at this season, is a mere deserted village ! — nobody that is any- 
body, in town, — not a shutter open in Grosvenor Square. You 
might pasture a flock of Southdown sheep in Portland Place, — 
and every carriage we see has an imperial on the top. The 
sooner we escape ourselves the better ; though you must not 
suppose, like Dr. Johnson, that " he who is tired of London, 
must be tired of life, since there is in London every thing that 
life can afford." 

Shall I attempt, in a single page, to describe this gigantic 
city ? Such an achievement would resemble that of Crock- 
ford's cook, who distilled a whole ox into a basin of soup. 
Though Bonaparte struck out the word impossible from his vo- 
cabulary, it remains in mine, and falls, like an extinguisher, 
upon all my hopes of succeeding ; but take Lord Byron's 
sketch, in full of all demands on ordinary pens : — 

a wilderness of steeples peeping 

On tip-toe, through their sea-coakpanopy, 
A huge, dun cupola, like a fool's-cap crown 
On a fool's head, — and there is London town. 

Some skillful physician once remarked, that England would 
certainly go off in an apoplexy at last, because the circulation 
towards her extremities grows daily more languid, while every 
thing tends to the head ; and it gave me some idea of the enor- 
mous scale which London is on now, compared with former 
times, to hear, that forty years ago, the mail left this for Scot- 
land with only one letter, and now the average number that de- 
parts from the metropolis every morning is 80,000 ! One clerk 
at the post-office is allowed a considerable salary merely for 
turning all the directions upwards, previous to their being ar- 
ranged. How insignificant my one epistle will appear among 
so many ! And we ourselves, after being accustomed to occa- 
sion some sensation at inns and villages in the wilds of Wales, 
feel now reduced again to obscurity, like Cinderella, when her 
carriage was turned into a pumpkin, — her horses into mice, — 
and herself into a mere nobody. 

It is highly diverting to watch the incessant stream of anx- 
ious, busy faces, unceasingly passing our window. No mere 
loungers are in town at this season, or if cruel necessity detains 



272 young lady's reader. 

any, they keep out of sight ; but the numerous equestrians and 
pedestrians of every rank and degree who do appear, are 
probably each of importance in some little coterie, — every one 
is, of course, pursuing some favorite object, compared with 
which the whole world besides is insignificant, — and all will at 
last come under the pen of their respective biographers, either 
in quarto or duodecimo, — in magazines, journals, or penny 
tracts, — in the Newgate Calendar, or the annual obituary. 
Men of any eminence can scarcely now exchange an ordinary 
invitation to dinner, or return thanks for a box of grouse, with- 
out the very natural apprehension, that what they write will 
either be printed in some volume of memoirs, or else embalmed 
in a collection of autographs ; and I was amused during the 

last Parliament at Lord , who has such an objection to his 

frank appearing in any lady's album, that he only gave one, 
after receiving a positive promise that the cover should be turn- 
ed inside out, and sent back by the next post. 

You were diverted once to hear of the old lady who had a 
nervous complaint which could only be relieved by talking: but 
much as her friends had their complaisance put to the test, by 
listening without intermission, you must prepare to find me 
laboring under similar symptoms when we meet. Make up 
your mind to be considerably bored, and to have occasion for a 
large share of inexhaustible patience. 

You have often wondered, and so do I, to observe how indus- 
triously many persons cultivate in themselves an extreme de- 
gree of fastidiousness about conversation, which leads to in- 
cessant irritation against their friends, for being tedious or 
common-place. Even christians, who profess to be prepared 
for the greatest trials of life, think it allowable to exclaim 
loudly and peevishly against the intolerable misery of associa- 
ting with uncongenial minds, and believe themselves prepared 
for martyrdom itself, though not for such petty inconveniences. 
Certainly nothing is more soothing to our self-love than throw- 
ing the blame of stupidity upon others, which might more just- 
ly rest with ourselves ; and I have often been amazed at the 
pride of intellect with which clever persons, or those who 
reckon themselves so, talk contemptuously of " a bore," as 
being of a different species from themselves, scarcely fit to 
live, and certainly not fit to live in their society. Genius or 
wit, in whatever way these gifts may be perverted, furnish un- 
doubted tickets of admission and of welcome in select circles, 
where no crime is so great as that of failing to entertain ; but 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 273 

how much rather I would possess the " one talent" of Mrs. 

, who can render up her account hereafter with joy, than 

the ten talents of , who sets ^himself up as an idol to 

the literary world, and seems to have said of his mental facul- 
ties, " they are our own : who is lord over us T" May we ever 
remember, my dear cousin, that a solemn responsibility rests 
on all we think, say, or do ; and while careful not to let even 
our thoughts be such as might hurt the feelings of others, let 
us ever remember the example and the precepts of our Divine 
Master, who has promised, that " to him who ordereth his con- 
versation aright, He will shew salvation. " 

Our correspondence is now about to terminate in the way 
that all correspondences ought, by a happy meeting", which will 
take place delightfully soon, for as A — says, with railways and 
steamboats, no one place is more than a hop, step, and a jump, 
from another. In the mean time, I shall say no more, but fol- 
low the very judicious advice of our favorite Cowper, 

Tell not as new what ev'iy body knows, 
And new or old, still hasten to a close. 



TO MISS H. MORE —Bishop Porteus. 

My dear Madam, — I shall soon advertise the restorative vir- 
tues of the moat and the tides of Fulham, for Dr. Beattie was 
another of the patients whom we sent away much recruited and 
refreshed in body and mind, after trying the salutary springs of 
Bath in vain. He complained most bitterly of that place. He 
said that all the elements were in conspiracy against him ; the 
fire of the sun burned him, the dust of the earth choked him, 
the grossness of the air oppressed him, and the waters totally 
unbraced and dissolved him. He was glad to have recourse to 
the pure, vivifying atmosphere of Fulham again for a few days, 
before he returned to Scotland, which he did soon after, in toler- 
able health and spirits. 

The meadow on the banks of the Thames has advanced 
much in beauty since you left us ; and if I should be rich 
enough to erect a little thatched cottage upon it next summer, I 
am not sure whether this place will not grow jealous of it, and 
, whether even your cowslips must not bow their yellow heads, 
and make obeisance to it. I have made old father Thames a 
fine, easy grass slope, to walk up as far as he pleases upon my 
lawn, and this has put him in such good-humor, that after staying 



274 young lady's header. 

a very short time there, he walks quickly back again, without 
doing me the least injury. 

We came here last Wednesday, traveling like the old patri- 
archs, with all our household, and our herds, and our flocks, 
(that is, one Alderney cow,) and found this country and our 
little domain in high bloom and beauty. All our alterations 
and improvements are now finished, and they answer to admi- 
ration. I shall have no peace till you see my walks, and 
lawns, and groves, and haunted streams, and become as well 
acquainted with my naiads and my dryads here, as you are 
with their elder sisters at Fulham. 

We heard of your alarm at Cowslip Green, and congratulate 
you most cordially on your providential escape. We agree 
entirely with a certain elegant textuary, that it is of the Lord's 
mercies that you were not consumed. 

The Birmingham riot was an unfortunate thing. I do not 
love any thing so like the savages and the Poissards of France. 
The mob may sometimes think right, but they always act 
wrong. I am certainly extremely sorry to see them take the 
administration of justice into their own hands. 

Have you seen the Life' of Thomas Paine? if not, pray 
send for it immediately. It is curious, entertaining, and au- 
thentic. That life and the pamphlet (which I enclose to you 
under another cover,) are the best antidotes I have seen, to the 
poison of his publication ; they ought to be printed in cheap 
penny pamphlets, and dispersed over the kingdom. 

Accept Mrs. Porteus' affectionate compliments, and be assu- 
red that no one can entertain for you a more sincere regard 
than, Dear madam, 

Your faithful and devoted servant, 

B. London. 



TO MRS. H, MORE.— Rev. J. Newton. 

My very dear Madam, — Should I receive a book from some 
authors, I might perhaps make my acknowledgments immedi- 
ately, before I had read it, that I might avoid the necessity of 
intimating my opinion of the performance; but I deferred thank- 
ing you for your obliging present, till I could say I had read it ; 
and this I could not say sooner, for my engagements allow me 
but very little time for reading. I mean not, however, to tell 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 275 

you in detail what I think of it. Let it suffice that I thank you 
for it. I thank the Lord for disposing and enabling you to write 
it — and my heart prays that it may be much read, and that the 
blessing of the Lord may accompany the perusal, and make it 
extensively useful ; answerable to your benevolent design, and 
far beyond your expectation. I know you too well to apologize 
for my freedom when I say that I wished the note, vol. i. page 
171, had been omitted. I hoped your just censure of novels 
would have extended to the proscription of the whole race, with- 
out mercy and without exception. Self here will prompt every 
scribbler to interpret your note in his or her own favor, and to 
think the author could not mean to condemn him. My novel, 
he will say, contains accurate histories, striking delineations, 
&c. From the little I can recollect of what I have read in this 
line, (perhaps forty years ago,) I am almost ready to judge, that 
the best are the worst ; for had not some been well-written and 
admired, it is probable we should not have been pestered with 
the contemptible small fry that followed. I am not sure that I 
ever read a novelist of note ; but I thought Fielding and Richard- 
son did much harm by forming the prevailing taste for novels. 
The latter is, upon the whole, the more serious ; but he could not 
give a better" idea of religion than he had. I suppose a novel 
cannot well succeed without contrasted characters, and I am 
afraid that of Lovelace has been more admired than Clarissa's ; 
and the last words of Lovelace, when he threw up a handful of 
his blood towards heaven, — Let this expiate,— are a full proof to 
me that Richardson was no more competent to teach divinity 
than Fielding. I have heard, likewise, that Mr. Richardson, 
when asked if he knew an original answerable to his portrait of 
Sir Charles Grandison, said, he might apply it to Lord Dart- 
mouth, if he was not a Methodist. But, in my opinion the very 
best of these performances, being addressed merely to the ima- 
gination, have a tendency to fill the heads of young people with 
wind-mills, and indispose them for taking their proper part in the 
more tame and familiar incidents of common life. I remind 
myself, and perhaps remind you, of the pedagogue who declaimed 
on the art of war in the presence of Hannibal — it is a sign I 
know to whom I am writing, to one who can bear, forbear, and 
forgive. 

I have lately published Memoirs of Mr. Grimshaw ; a copy 
would have waited upon you as a pepper-corn acknowledgment 
of my regard, and affection, and gratitude, had I well known how 
to send such a petty affair before I received your present. If it 



276 young lady's reader. 

has the same effect upon my brethren in the ministry, while 
they read it, that it had upon me while writing it, it will hum- 
ble and shame them. Such were my feelings for the time ; 
but how often since have the worms of pride and self-conceit 
lifted up their saucy heads ! Ah ! why are dust and ashes 
proud 1 This seems the strongest feature and proof of our de- 
pravity. If you should come into St. Mary's, and hear me using 
many arguments to dissuade my hearers from thinking them- 
selves ten or twelve feet high, and requesting them to be meas- 
ured by a rule in my hand, would you not suppose either that I 
was mad myself, or thought that I was preaching to a company 
of lunatics? — yet this is a part of my employment, and, what 
is worse, my good advice is often thrown away, even upon 
myself. 

We go on much in our old way at No. 6 : only that I have 
buried a servant who lived with me sixteen years in London, 
and a long while at Olney ; and in her I have lost a faithful 
friend — but she, I trust, has gained. My dear Miss Catlett is 
pretty well. I believe no family is more favored with do- 
mestic peace and comfort than ours : the gracious Lord has 
made my widowed state (which I still feel) as pleasant in tem- 
porals as the nature of the case will admit, so that I can think 
of no addition worth wishing for, if a wish could procure it. — 
My own health is remarkably good : though I feel some 
effects of advancing years, I seldom feel them in the pulpit ; 
but I am within four months of seventy-four, and therefore live 
in daily expectation of some change ; when, or how, or in 
what respects, is not my concern. I have committed myself 
and my all to the Lord. Pray for me, my dear madam, that I 
may be able to abide by the surrender I have made, and may 
not presume either to direct or distrust him. 

This is an eventful day! which calls for watchfulness and 
prayer, for weanedness from the world, and for power from on 
high, that we may stand fast in the Lord, when all things are 
shaking around us ! O, what a mercy to see all power in hea- 
ven and earth exercised by Him who was nailed to the cross 
for sinners ! May we be found among the few who are stand- 
ing in the breach pleading for mercy. The Lord bless you all, 
prays Your affectionate and obliged 

John Newton. 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 277 



TO A YOUNG LADY— ON THE MELANCHOLY ARISING 
FROM A FASTIDIOUS SENSIBILITY— Miss Jewsbury. 

Young, gifted, and beloved — yet unhappy! Blessed with 
health, leisure, and competence — yet habitually sad ! Wholly 
your own mistress, and a christian by more than profession — 

yet subject to ennui ! Indeed, my dearest , this is a sad 

state of things, though, independent of your own confession, I 
know it to be one fully possible, and, with characters like your 
own, very common. Minds of a reflective, and somewhat 
timid cast, are most liable to the influence of morbid sensibili- 
ty ; they soon begin to look through, rather than upon society, 
and consequently become disgusted with the construction of it. 
They serve their pleasures as children do their toys — pull them 
to pieces in order to ascertain their internal mechanism ; and 
their emotions, as the same children serve rose-buds — open 
them to accelerate their time of bloom. Without intentional 
want of benevolence, they feel little towards their fellow- 
creatures beyond general good-will, or perfect indifference, 
whilst their affections are few, ardent, arbitrary, and exclusive. 

To bring the subject back to a personal point, by quoting an 
expression of your own, "they live in a little world of their 
own creation ;" which little world, by the way, seldom con- 
tains many inhabitants. There is generally much that is in- 
teresting in a mind thus constituted, and when religious princi- 
ple gets firm and influential hold of its energies, the excellence 
which results is perhaps of a higher kind, than can be engraft- 
ed on a weaker, gayer character. This admission is not meant, 
however, to reconcile you to a state of feeling at once unnatu- 
ral and indefensible : the world might as well be one universal 
church-yard, as a world of fastidious, exclusive, sensitive be- 
ings, who hold their spirits as the streamer does its direction, at 
the will of every fluttering breeze. But as you have applied to 
me for counsel, I wish, like a prudent physician, to gain your 
confidence in the outset ; to prove that I understand your case, 
before I bid you follow my prescriptions. From me, too, you 
are assured of affectionate sympathy, not merely because I 
I love you, but because I myself lived many years under the star> 
of melancholy, and therefore know, from personal experience, 
its pains, its pleasures, and its penalties. I know, too, some- 
thing of a happier state, and with care and attention, (you must 
allow me to keep up the physician's phrase,) so, I doubt not, 

24 



278 young lady's reader. 

will you. In one sense you are sensible of the numberless 
and solid comforts you enjoy ; in another, you are blind to 
them : never having known their loss, you esteem them matters 
of course, and they do not produce excitement. You have, on 
the other hand, some drawbacks, a few annoyances ; and to 
these you are not so torpid as you are to the blessings ; these 
excite positive irritation and weariness, and by proving to you 
that life does not lie in fairy land, make you sometimes wish 
there were no life at all. Day after day creeps on, divided be- 
tween irksome submission to ordinary, and therefore disagreea- 
ble duties, vain dreams of a fancied existence, fraught with in- 
terest and free from alloy, whilst the pleasures really in accord- 
ance with your own tastes, fail to satisfy, because you expect 
too much from them. In the Edens of your own making you 
cease to be " emparadised." Ah ! my love, whence is all this ? 
One short and simple answer will suffice, even that which ac- 
counts for all human error, and human unhappiness — you have 
forgotten the true end of life ; silently, and unconsciously, you 
have disconnected it from eternity, and therefore its beauty has 
no bloom, and there is no balm for its disquietudes. 

Much has been said, and strikingly said, of the painful con- 
trast between romance and reality ; but simile, instance and 
allegory, are all in vain, unless the Spirit of Truth accompany 

both writer and reader. May that Spirit, dearest , though 

now it seems an eclipsed sun, again shine " into your heart, and 
make its wilderness rejoice and blossom as the rose." When 
I think of your real circumstances, I wish it were the extrava- 
gant hyperbole it appears, to apply such a phrase to one so 
young, and, as regards real trials, so sheltered. Yet do not 
suppose I wish to deceive you into gay and thoughtless views ; 
I could paint you a much more melancholy picture of life than 
you could possibly do for yourself. The only Being who ever 
promised peace, prefaced that promise with a decided intima- 
tion of the world's unutterable vanity. 

To speak honestly, I do not think you will ever find a 
smoother path than the one which you are now treading. You 
may certainly have some enjoyments added, but others will as 
certainly be subtracted. With an increase of society conso- 
nant to your feelings, your keen zest for it may proportionately 
diminish : or you may have less health, and additional cares. 
Should you gain more friends, your affection for them may be 
less ardent, and less confiding. " There is a limit to all our 
enjoyments, and every desire bears its death in its very gratifi- 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 279 

cation. Curiosity languishes under repeated stimulants : nov- 
elties cease to excite surprise. He who has sallied into the 
world, full of sunny anticipations, finds too soon how different 
the distant scene becomes when visited. The smooth place 
roughens as he approaches ; the wild place becomes tame and 
barren ; the fairy tints that beguiled him on, still fly to the dis- 
tant hill, or gather upon the land he has left behind, and every 
part of the landscape appears greener than the spot he stands 
on." 

Sooner or later you will be obliged to take refuge in content ; 
and, lightly as you may now esteem it, to be thankful for con- 
tent. I willingly admit, that I think a good deal of what you 
now experience, is occasioned by a somewhat sudden expan- 
sion of mind ; by thoughts which lack expression ; fancies, 
which as yet can find no occupation ; feelings, which you do 
not yourself understand, and which you fear to have misunder- 
stood by others. You cannot at present come in contact with 
intellect or sensibility, whether in books or persons, without 
feverish excitement: poetry, fiction, narrative, tragedy, what- 
soever you read, has more than a written existence ; it has an 
influence, and a presence, both tangible and abiding. Imagina- 
ry characters do not come " like shadows, to depart ;" you live 
with, and love them, far more than real ones ; and the secret 
sigh of your heart is, " for a world of such beings, to ad- 
mire, imitate, and discourse with !" Now it may startle you to 
be told, that this is a very inferior enjoyment of intellect ; that 
a much higher delight will be yours, when you shall have learn- 
ed to value books in precise proportion as they elucidate cor- 
rectly the heart and mind of your species ; in other words, 
when you shall read and think, less to escape from mankind, 
than to be brought into closer contact with them, into more en- 
larged and kindly communion. Very few of the great imagin- 
ative writers are morbidly disposed ; they may overtop their 
brethren in mind, but in heart they maintain a frieridly fellow- 
ship. It is no mark of superiority, to lack interest in our fel- 
low-creatures ; and the mind which cannot cheerfully, and with 
full purpose, go from the world of thought and fancy, to that of 
life and action, has yet to learn its fitting use and true distinc- 
tion. At your age I did not credit the possibility of such trans- 
fer ; but I have since seen too many illustrious instances, to 
doubt that the utmost refinement of taste, and the most enthusi- 
astic love of literature, may subsist with a graceful and good- 
humored attention to inferior employments, homely duties, and 



280 young lady's reader. 

ordinary associations. The ardent love of literature, though a 
healthy taste in itself, is not healthily exercised, when it does 
not refresh our spirits, stimulate us to action, and, by invigora- 
ting our minds, reconcile us to whatsoever may be painful in 
our lot. A cultivated mind, accompanied by healthy sensibili- 
ty, conscious that it knows of a region wherein it can always 
breathe " an ampler ether and diviner air," will not, on that ac- 
count, be impatient of the grosser element by which it may 
habitually be surrounded. It can afford to suffer, to be annoy- 
ed, and entrenched upon. It bears an analogy to a religious 
spirit ; it " is a noble and imperial bird, that, sometimes driven 
down by the storm, yet keeps its plumes expanded, and its eye 
on heaven, till, on the first gleam of sunshine, it shakes its wet 
and weary wing, and eagle-like, towers again to the sun." 

What I have said of literature, applies equally to the love of 
nature; and, begging you to apply the passage yet more 
emphatically to the tendency of true religion, I will quote some 
lines from a poem that has few fellows, and no superiors : 

" She can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings." 

With all that I have said, I have not yet touched the root of 
the malady, or proposed any adequate remedy. I am not anx- 
ious, then, for the removal of your depression, or desirous that 
you should be happy, merely on account of your personal enjoy- 
ment ; I desire it, mainly, because you cannot otherwise be 
useful ; and your christian profession, like a sword exposed to 
moisture, if it do not lose its edge, will certainly lose its polish. 

On this ground, my dear , you must arouse from a lethargy 

not less destructive to the due performance of duty, than actual 
sin — nay, little short of actual sin itself. What ! would you 
have " a world that lieth in wickedness," a world of unalloyed 
felicity ? Would you be a christian Sybarite 1 Dare you mur- 
mur because the life of faith is not an eastern romance ? Do 
you, in sober truth, desire to have your year all spring — your 
day all noon? So did not He " who pleased not himself;" so 
did not He who " had learned in whatsoever state he was, 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 281 

therewith to be content," — who knew how to suffer need, and, 
far harder task, knew also " how to abound." Think of these 
things ; and instead of praying for resignation under troubles 
which do not exist, pray to have your heart filled with joy and 
thankfulness for the blessings which are showered upon you. 
If, in the mistaken spirit of an apostle, you shrink from contact 
with every thing that fastidiousness may call " common or un- 
clean," where is the benevolence which bears to see, nay, 
which desires to see the misery which has no recommendation 
beyond its reality 1 Tf, in occasional intercourse with those 
who are ungraced with the charms of mind and manners, you 
manifest cold, impatient civility, and all but cherish dislike and 
disdain, where is the charity which " seeketh not her own, and 
endureth ail things ?" If, avowedly, and on system, you esteem 
none but the gifted, the distinguished, and the amusing, where 
is the spirit of Him whose gentlest words were ever to the 
weakest — who gave an everlasting memorial to one who had 
done " what she could V If, just entered on life and your 
christian career together, you already long for some bower of 
ease, and sigh for two heavens instead of one, where is the 
faith which professes to have here no continuing city — which 
proclaims, 1 that it is enough for the servant to be as his master, 
and the disciple as his lord ? We all get wrong the moment we 
forget that this world is not our rest. Midnight is not a more 
effectual shroud for the landscape, than unbelief for divine 
things, when it interposes between them and our souls. Why 
else are we more anxious for seasons of enjoyment than for op- 
portunities of usefulness ? Why else do we call God our sat- 
isfying portion, yet grieve and murmur unless he satisfy us 
with a portion beside ? Why else do we pronounce his favor 
to be life, and prove too often in action, that we value every 
thing in life more than his favor ? 

" 'Tis, by comparison, an easy task 

Earth to despise ; bat to converse with heaven — 

This is not easy." 

Yet let us seek that spirituality of mind which renders it possi- 
ble — which, at once satisfied and sober-minded, is content that 
vanity should be inscribed on the world's best and brightest, be- 
cause it has respect to " the recompense of reward" — the unde- 
fined and unfading inheritance of God. I will now, my dear 

, offer three suggestions for your assistance : I think you 

may find them beneficial. They have a threefold reference — 

24* 



282 young lady's reader. 

religious, intellectual, and moral. Invigorate your soul, then, 
by frequent contemplations of the life of Christ, who, when 
" the world was all before him, where to choose," selected a 
path that led right through the vale of humiliation ; had the 
cross ever before him, as the termination of the vista, the pain- 
ful close of a toilsome pilgrimage. This, for your spiritual 
employment. Next, employ your understanding upon works 
of thought; read moral philosophy, as treated by sound 
authors ; the critical discussions, not of meager minds on mea- 
ger subjects, but of men of genius on works of genius. This, 
for your mental remedy : intellectual abstractions afford the 
best counterpoise to a dreaming fancy. Lastly, occupy a sta- 
ted, and as large a portion of your time as you can, in acting 
for others, and especially for those who " have no helper." 
Study benevolence, in reference to your equals, as well as infe- 
riors ; in its passive form of forbearance, as well as its active 
guise of charity. Avoid solitude. Arouse from reveries. 
Command your attention to fix on passing objects, and interest 
in them will, by degrees, follow. Task yourself to converse. 
Task yourself to listen to conversation. Withal, seek God's 
blessing on all your endeavors, and, ere long, the first sentence 
of this letter will cease to apply to my dearest . 



A DISCOURSE. 



ON THE GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS.— Horne. 

The heart in the body is the well-spring of life. From thence 
the blood proceeds, and thither it returns. Purge the fountains 
therefore, and the streams will flow pure. 

When we treat of the mind, we use the same word, to denote 
that center and source from which all our thoughts issue ; as 
when we say, a man has a good heart, or bad heart. He who 
never thinks any evil, will never speak any, or do any. Above 
all things, then, watch well your thoughts. " Keep thy heart 
with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life." Purge 
the fountain, and the streams will flow pure. 



DISCOURSE. 283 

But is this possible 1 it will be asked. — Thoughts are vola- 
tile things ; they arise without, or against one's will ; and you 
may as well tell us to improve the mind, as to keep them in 
order, when they are risen. The task is difficult, but not so 
very difficult. It is difficult ; but the greater will be the glory 
of performing it. It has been done, and therefore may be done 
again. It is not impossible, for then it had never been com- 
manded — " Keep thy heart with all diligence ;" do your best, 
and, by God's grace, you will succeed. 

The right government of the thoughts, to be sure, requires no 
small art, vigilance, and resolution. But it is a matter of such 
vast importance to the peace and improvement of the mind, that 
it is worth while to be at some pains about it. For a little con- 
sideration will show us, that our happiness or unhappiness de- 
pends generally upon our own thoughts. What happens with- 
out us does not produce either one or the other, but our thoughts 
and apprehensions about it. The same kind of accident which 
deprives one person of his reason, will give little or no concern 
to another ; nor can any affliction, perhaps, befall the children 
of men, which some have not borne with cheerfulness and ease. 

It will be readily allowed, that a man who has so numerous 
and turbulent a family to govern, which are too apt to be at the 
command of his passions and appetites, ought not to be long 
from home. If he be, they will" soon grow mutinous and dis- 
orderly, under the conduct of those two headstrong guides, and 
raise great clamors and disturbances, sometimes on very slight 
occasions indeed. And a more dreadful scene of misery can 
hardly be imagined, than that which is occasioned by such a 
tumultuous uproar within; when a raging conscience, or in- 
flamed passions, are let loose, without check or control. A city 
in flames is but a faint emblem, or the mutiny of intoxicated 
mariners, who have' murdered their commander, and are de- 
stroying one another. The torment of the mind, under such an 
insurrection and ravage, is not easy to be conceived. The 
most revengeful person in the world cannot wish his enemy a 
greater. 

A wise heathen very justly observes, that a man is seldom 
rendered unhappy by his ignorance of the thoughts of others ; 
but he that does not attend to the motions of his own, is cer- 
tainly miserable. Yet look around you, and what do you be- 
hold ? People ranging and roving all the world over, — ran- 
sacking every thing, — gazing at the stars above, — digging into 
the bowels of the earth below, — diving into other men's bosoms ; 



284 young lady's reader. 

never considering, all the while, that the care of their own 
minds is neglected. He who spends so much of his time 
abroad, must expect to find strange doings when he comes 
home. 

A very ingenious and sensible writer has observed, that the 
selection of our thoughts is of equal consequence with the 
choice of our company. Permit me to adopt his ideas as the 
groundwork of the following discourse, — adding withal, such 
other reflections as have occurred in a course of meditation on 
the subject. 

Let us consider our thoughts as so much company, and en- 
quire, which of them one would wish to exclude and send away, 
— which to let in and receive? Because, it is much easier to 
prevent disagreeable visitants from entering, than to get rid of 
them when they are entered. It will be a great matter, therefore, 
to have a trusty porter at the gate, — to keep a good guard at the 
door by which bad thoughts come in, and to avoid those occa- 
sions which commonly excite them. 

In the first place, then, it may be taken for granted, no one 
would choose to entertain guests that were peevish and dis- 
contented with every thing. Their room is certainly much 
better than their company. They are uneasy in themselves, and 
will soon make the whole house so ; like wasps, that not only 
are restless, but will cause universal uneasiness, and sting the 
family. Watch, therefore, against all thoughts of this kind, 
which do but chase and corrode the mind to no purpose. To 
harbor these is to do yourself more injury than it is in the power 
of your greatest enemy to do you. It is equally a Christian's 
interest and duty to learn, in whatsoever state he is, therewith 
to be content. 

There is another set of people, who are not the most- com- 
fortable companions in the world ; such as are evermore anxious 
about what is to happen, — fearful of every thing, and appre- 
hensive of the worst : Open not the door to thoughts of this 
complexion ; since, by giving way to tormenting fears and sus- 
picions of some approaching danger, or troublesome event, you 
not only anticipate, but double the evil you fear ; and undergo 
much more from the apprehension of it before it comes, than 
from the whole weight of it when it is present. Are not all 
these events under the direction of a wise and gracious Provi- 
dence ? If they befall you, they constitute that share of suffer- 
ing which God hath appointed you, and which he expects you 
to bear as a Christian. He who sends trials will send strength. 



DISCOURSE. 285 

Your being miserable beforehand will not keep them off, or 
enable you to bear them when they come. But suppose (as it 
often happens) that they never come ; then you have made 
yourself wretched, perhaps twenty years together, for nothing ; 
and all would have been just as it is, if you never had an 
uneasy thought about it. How often has your fear magnified 
evils at a distance, which you have found infinitely less in real- 
ity than in appearance ? Learn to trust God and be at peace ; 
" in quietness and peace shall be your strength." 

You esteem it a dreadful thing to be obliged to live with 
persons who are passionate and quarrelsome. You undoubt- 
edly judge right; it is like living in a house that is on fire. 
Dismiss, therefore, as soon as may be, all angry and wrathful 
thoughts. They canker the mind and dispose it to the worst 
temper in the world, — that of fixed malice and revenge. Never 
recall the ideas, or ruminate upon past injuries and provoca- 
tions. This is the amusement of many in their solitary hours ; 
but they might as well play with cannon-balls or thunderbolts ; 
they may work themselves up to distraction, — to hate every 
thing, and every body, and to have the temper and disposition of 
the destroyer himself. Anger may steal into the heart of a wise 
man ; but rests only in the bosom of fools. Make the most 
candid allowance for the offender. Consider his natural tem- 
per. Turn your anger into pity. Regard him as ill of a very 
bad distemper. The apostle's precept in this case, is, " let 
not the sun go down upon your wrath." The Pythagoreans, a 
sect of heathen philosophers, are said to have practised it lit- 
erally ; who, if at any time in a passion they had broken out 
into abusive language, before sunset gave each other their 
hands, and with them a discharge from all injuries, and so 
parted friends. Above all things, be sure to set a guard on 
the tongue, while the angry fit is upon you. The least spark 
may break out into a conflagration, when cherished by a resent- 
ful heart, and fanned by the wind of an angry breath. Aggra- 
vating expressions, at such a time, are like oil thrown upon the 
flames. In anger, as well as in a fever, it is good to have the 
tongue kept smooth and clean. 

Whoever has been much conversant with the world, must 
have often met with silly, trifling, and unreasonable people, 
who are to be found every where, and thrust themselves into 
all companies ; who will talk forever about nothing ; and whose 
conversation, if you could enjoy it a month together, would 
neither instruct nor entertain you. How far preferable is soli- 



286 young lady's reader. 

tude to such society ! There are silly, trifling, and unreasonable 
thoughts as well as persons ; such are always about, and if care 
be not taken, will get into the mind we know not how, and seize 
and possess it before we are aware ; they will hold it in empty 
idle speculations, which yield it neither pleasure nor profit, and 
turn to no manner of account upon earth ; only consume time 
and prevent a better employment of the mind. And indeed, 
there is little difference whether we spend the time in sleep, or 
in these waking dreams. Nay, if the thoughts which thus 
insensibly steal upon the mind be not altogether absurd and 
nonsensical, yet if they be impertinent and unreasonable, they 
ought to be dismissed, because they keep out better company. 

There is something particularly tiresome in your projectors 
and castle builders, who will detain you for hours with re- 
lations of their probable and improbable schemes ; taking 
you off, as well as themselves, all the while, from the plain 
duties of common life ; from doing your business, or enjoy- 
ing your friends. One should never be at home to this 
sort of visitants. Give your porter, therefore, directions to 
be in a more special manner upon his guard against all wild 
and extravagant thoughts, all vain and fantastical imagina- 
tions. Suffer not your mind to be taken up with thoughts 
of things that never were, and perhaps never will be ; to seek 
after a visionary pleasure in the prospect of what you have not 
the least reason to hope, or a needless pain in the apprehension 
of what you have not the least reason to fear. It is unknown 
how much time is wasted by many persons in these airy and 
chimerical schemes, while they neglect their duty to God and 
man, and even their own worldly interest ; thus losing the sub- 
stance by grasping at the shadow, and dreaming themselves 
princes, till they awake beggars. The truth is, next to a clear 
conscience and sound judgment, there is not a greater blessing 
than a regular and well governed imagination ; to be able to 
view things as they are, in their true light and proper colors ; 
and to distinguish the false images that are painted on the fancy, 
from the representations of truth and reason. For how com- 
mon a thing is it, for men, before they are aware, to confound 
reason and fancy, truth and imagination, together ; to think 
they believe things true or false, when they only fancy them to 
be so, because they would have them so ; as some have told a 
story, knowing it to be false, till by degrees they have come to 
think it true. 

There is one sort of guests who are no strangers to the mind 
of man. These are gloomy and melancholy thoughts. There 



DISCOURSE. 287 

are times and seasons when, to some, every thing appears dis- 
mal and disconsolate, though they know not why. A black 
cloud hangs hovering over their minds, which, when it falls in 
showers through their eyes, is dispersed, and all is serene 
again. This is often purely mechanical, and owing either to 
some fault in the bodily constitution, or some accidental disor- 
der in the animal frame. It comes on in a dark month, a thick 
sky, and an east wind. Constant employment and a cheerful 
friend are two excellent remedies. Certain, however, it is, that 
whatever means can be devised, they should instantly and inces- 
santly be used to drive away such dreary and desponding 
imaginations ; for to admit and indulge them, would be as if 
one was to quit the warm precincts of day, to take leave of life 
and the sun, and to pass one's time amidst the damps and dark- 
ness of a funeral vault. Our faculties, in such circumstances, 
would be benumbed, and we should soon become, ourselves, 
useless to all the purposes of our being, like the inhabitants of 
the tomb, who sleep in death. 

It is needless to say that we should repel all impure thoughts ; 
because if we possess a fair character, and frequent good com- 
pany, it is to be hoped they will not have the assurance to 
knock at our door. 

Lastly — with abhorrence reject immediately all profane and 
blasphemous thoughts, which are sometimes suddenly injected 
into the mind, we know not how, though we may guess from 
whence ; unless, indeed, they proceed from some weakness and 
bodily indisposition ; in which case, the assistance of a physi- 
cian may be more necessary than that of the divine. When 
the body is disordered, the mind will be so too ; and thoughts 
will arise in it, of which no account can be given. But let 
those who are thus afflicted know, for their comfort, that bare 
thoughts will not be imputed to them for sins, while they do 
not cherish and encourage them ; but, on the contrary, exert all 
their endeavors to expel and banish them ; which, with prayers 
and help from above, will not fail of success in the end. 

These, then, are the thoughts against which you should care- 
fully guard : such as are peevish and discontented ; anxious 
and fearful ; passionate and quarrelsome ; silly and trifling ; 
vain and fantastical ; gloomy and melancholy ; impure ; pro- 
fane and blasphemous. A formidable band ! to whose impor- 
tunity, more or less, every one is subject. Reason, aided by 
the grace of God, must watch diligently at the gate, either to 
bar their entrance, or drive them forthwith when entered, not 



288 young lady's reader. 

only as impertinent, but mischievous intruders, that will other- 
wise forever destroy the peace and quiet of the family. 

The best method, after all, perhaps, is to contrive matters so 
as always to be pre-engaged, when they come ; engaged with 
better company ; and then there will be no room for them, 
For other kind of thoughts there are, to which, when they stand 
at the door and knock, the porter should open immediately ; 
which you should let in and receive, retain and improve, to 
your soul's health and happiness. 

The grand secret in this, as in many other cases, is employ- 
ment. An empty house is every body's property. All the va- 
grants about the country will take up their quarters in it. Al- 
ways, therefore, have something to do, and you will always 
have something to think about. God has placed every person in 
some station ; and every station has a set of duties belonging 
to it. Did we not forget or neglect these, evil thoughts would 
sue for admission in vain. Indeed, they would not come near 
our dwelling, any more than idle, vain, profligate people would 
think of visiting and teasing a man who labored constantly for 
his daily bread. If there be any one, who is of opinion that 
his station does not find him employment, or that it privileges 
him to be idle, let him only suppose, for a moment, that when 
his soul shall quit his body, and appear before God, he be asked 
the two following questions : Whether he could not have done 
more good in the world ? and, Why he did not ? 

But, besides the duties we owe to others, there is a person 
very dear to every one of us, who claims no small share of at- 
tention and regard. I mean self. Each man's mind is a little 
estate at his own door, which is to be brought into order and 
kept in order. It is naturally a wilderness ! it is to be con- 
verted into a garden. Weeds and thistles must be rooted up ; 
flowers and plants must be cultivated. Evil tempers and dis- 
positions must be dispossessed, and good ones planted in their 
place. Husbandmen and gardeners, if they mind their busi- 
ness, have enough to think of. Who can say his mind is yet 
completely in that state in which he wishes it to be 1 And 
even if it were, should his diligence be ever so little remitted, 
it would soon be out of that state again. He, therefore, who 
will receive and entertain all thoughts that tend to the improve- 
ment of his mind, needeth never complain of being without 
company. 

For this purpose, wisdom spreads her ample page before 
him ; the book of universal knowledge lies open to his inspec- 



DISCOURSE. 289 

tion ; and he may enrich his understanding with the experi- 
ence of ages and generations. The life of one man is like the 
life of another, and he cannot find himself in circumstances in 
which his predecessors have not been before him, and his suc- 
cessors shall not be after him. Hence the proper use of his- 
tory ; and above all history, that which relates the lives of per- 
sons in stations similar to our own. But there is no knowledge 
which may not be turned to use by him, who reads with a faith- 
ful and honest intention of being the better for it ; by applying 
all for his own correction and amendment. In the moral world, 
though not in the natural, there is a philosopher's stone, which 
transmutes all metals into gold. Of the present age it may 
certainly be said with truth, that it is an age of science. The 
communication has been opened, by commerce, with all parts 
of the world. The prophet Daniel's prediction is fulfilled. — 
" Many run to and fro, and knowledge is increased." " Wis- 
dom crieth without," but folly has a louder voice, and prevents 
her from being heard as she should be. Move a little out of 
the noise of one, and the sound of the other will steal gently 
upon your ear. Through that she will take possession of the 
heart, and introduce visitants, of whom you need never be 
ashamed. 

The heart, however, is capacious ; still there is room. — And 
lo, a procession appears advancing toward us, which will fill 
up every part — led on by one, in whose air reigns native digni- 
ty, and in whose countenance majesty and meekness sit en- 
throned together ; all the virtues unite their various lusters in 
her crown, around which spring the ever-blooming flowers of 
paradise. We acknowledge at once the queen of heaven, fair 
religion, with her lovely train ; faith, ever musing on the holy 
book ; hope, resting on her sure anchor ; charity, blessed with 
a numerous family around her, thinking no ill of any one, and 
doing good to all ; repentance, with gleams of comfort brighten- 
ing a face of sorrow, like the sun shining through a watery 
cloud ; devotion, with eyes fixed on heaven ; patience smiling 
at affliction ; peace carrying, on a golden scepter, the dove and 
the olive branch ; and joy, with an anthem book, singing an 
hallelujah ! Listen to the leader of this celestial band, and she 
will tell you all you can desire to know. She will carry you 
to the blissful bowers of Eden ; she will inform you how they 
were lost, and how they are to be regained. She will point 
out the world's Redeemer, exhibited from the beginning, in 
figure and in prophecy, while the patriarchs saw his day at a 

25 



290 young lady's header. 

distance, and the people of God were trained by their school- 
master, the law, to the expectation of him. She will shew you 
how all events from the creation tended to this great end, and 
all the distinguished persons who have appeared upon the stage, 
performed their parts in the universal drama, the empires of 
the world rising and falling in obedience to the appointment of 
Providence, for the execution of his counsels. At length, in 
the fulness of time, she will make known to you the appear- 
ance of the long-desired Savior ; explaining the reasons of his 
humble birth, and holy life ; of all he said, and all he did ; of 
his unspeakable sufferings ; his death and burial ; his triumph- 
ant resurrection, and glorious ascension. She will take you 
wilhin the veil, and give you a sight of Jesus, for the suffering 
of death, crowned with honor and immortality, and receiving 
homage from the hosts of heaven, and from the spirits of just 
men made perfect. She will pass over the duration of time 
and the world, and place before your eyes the throne of judg- 
ment, and the unalterable sentence ; the glories of the righteous, 
and the miseries of the wicked. The thoughts suggested by 
this variety of interesting subjects, are thoughts which well 
deserve admittance ; and if you will please to admit them, we 
may venture to say, " the house will be furnished with guests." 

Such guests you would wish to retain; such thoughts to 
cherish and improve. For this purpose, when you have started 
a good thought, pursue it ; do not presently lose sight of it, or 
suffer any trifling fancy that may intervene, to divert you from 
it. Dismiss it not till you have sifted it, and exhausted it, and 
well considered the different consequences and inferences that 
result from it. However, retain not the subject any longer than 
you find your thoughts run freely upon it ; for to confine them 
to it, when it is quite worn out, is to give them an unnatural 
bent, without sufficient employment, which will make them 
play, or be more apt to fly off to something else. 

And to keep the mind intent on the subject you think of, you 
must be at some pains to recall and refix your desultory and 
rambling thoughts. Lay open the subject in as many lights 
and views as it is capable of being represented in. Clothe 
your best ideas in pertinent and well-chosen words, deliberate- 
ly pronounced, or commit them to writing. Accustom yourself 
to speak naturally and reasonably on all subjects, and you will 
soon learn to think on the best ; especially if you often con- 
verse with those persons who speak, and those authors who 
write in that manner. 



DISCOURSE. 291 

The sincerity of a true religious principle cannot be better 
known, than by the readiness with which the thoughts turn 
themselves to God, and the pleasure with which they are em- 
ployed in devout exercises. And though a person may not 
always be so well pleased with hearing religious things talked 
of by others, whose different taste, sentiments, or manner of 
expression may have something disagreeable ; yet, if he 
have no inclination to think about them himself, he has great 
reason to suspect that his heart is not right with God. But, if 
he frequently and delightfully exercise his mind in divine con- 
templations, it will not only be a good mark of his sincerity, 
but will habitually dispose it for the reception of the best and 
most useful thoughts, and fit it for the noblest entertainment. 
For if bad thoughts are as infectious as bad company, good 
thoughts solace, instruct, and entertain the mind like good 
company. And this is one grand advantage of retirement, that 
a man may choose what company he pleases from within him- 
self. 

But as in the world we oftener light into bad company than 
good, so likewise even in solitude, we are oftener troubled with 
impertinent and unprofitable thoughts, than entertained with 
agreeable and useful ones. And a person who has so far lost 
the command of himself, as to lie at the mercy of every fool- 
ish or vexatious thought, is much in the same situation as a 
host, whose house is open to all comers ; whom, though ever 
so noisy, rude, and troublesome, he cannot get rid of; but with 
this difference, that the latter hath some recompense for his 
trouble ; the former none at all, but is robbed of his peace and 
quiet for nothing. 

And let no one imagine, as too many are apt to do, that it is 
a matter of indifference what thoughts he entertains in his 
heart, since the reason of things concurs with the testimony of 
scripture, to assure us that " the thought of foolishness," when 
allowed by us, " is itself sin." Therefore, in the excellent 
words of an excellent poet, — 

" Guard well thy thoughts — our thoughts are heard in heaven." 

" Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are the 
issues of life." 



292 



DIALOGUE. 



TRUE LOVE IS NO FLATTERER.— Shakspeare. 

[Present, King Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Kent, Glostcr, Edmund, Goneril, 
Regan, Cordelia.] 

Lear. Tell me, my daughters, 
Since now we will divest us, both of rule, 
Interest of territory, cares of state, 
Which of you, shall we say, doth love us most? 
That we our largest bounty may extend 
Where merit doth most challenge it. — Goneril, 
Our eldest-born, speak first, 

Gon. Sir, I 
Do love you more than words can wield the matter, 
Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty; 
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; 
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honor : 
As much as child e'er loved, or father found. 
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable : 
Beyond all manner of so much I love you. 

Cor. What shall Cordelia do 1 Love, and be silent. {Aside.) 

Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, 
With shadowy forests, and with champains riched, 
With plenteous rivers, and wide-skirted meads, 
We make thee lady : to thine and Albany's issue 
Be this perpetual. — What says our second daughter, 
Our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall ? Speak. 

Reg. I am made of that self-metal as my sister, 
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart 
I find, she names my very deed of love ; 
Only she comes too short, — that I profess 
Myself an enemy to all other joys, 
Which the most precious square of sense possesses ; 
And find, I am alone felicitate 
In your dear highness' love. 

Cor. Then poor Cordelia ! (Aside.) 
And yet not so ; since, I am sure, my love's 
More richer than my tongue. 



DIALOGUE. 293 

Lear. To thee, and thine, hereditary ever, 
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom ; 
No less in space, validity, and pleasure, 
Than that conferred on Goneril. — Now, our joy, 
Although the last, not least : to whose young love 
The vines of France, and milk of Burgundy, 
Strive to be interested : what can you say, to draw 
A third more opulent than your sisters 1 Speak. 

Cor. Nothing, my lord. 

Lear. Nothing ! 

Cor. Nothing. 

Lear. Nothing can come of nothing : speak again. 

Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave 
My heart into my mouth : I love your majesty 
According to my bond ; nor more, nor less. 

Lear. How, how, Cordelia 1 mend your speech a little, 
Lest it may mar your fortunes. 

Cor. Good my lord, 
You have begot me, bred me, loved me : I 
Return those duties back as are right fit, 
Obey you, love you, and most honor you. 
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say 
They love you, all ? Haply, when I shall wed, 
That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry 
Half my love with him, half my care, and duty : 
Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, 
To love my father all. 

Lear. But goes this with thy heart ? 

Cor. Ay, good my lord. 

Lear. So young, and so untender ! 

Cor. So young, my lord, and true. 

Lear. Let it be so. — Thy truth, then, be thy dower : 
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun ; 
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night ; 
By all the operations of the orbs, 
From whom we do exist, and cease to be ; 
Here I disclaim all my paternal care, 
Propinquity and property of blood, 
And as a stranger to my heart and me, 
Hold thee, from this, forever. The barbarous Scythian, 
Or he that makes his generation messes 
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom 

25* 



294 young lady's reader. 

Be as well neighbored, pitied, and relieved, 
As thou, my sometime daughter. 

Kent. Good, my liege,— 

Lear. Peace, Kent! 
Come not between the dragon and his wrath : 
I loved her most, and thought to set my rest 
On her kind nursery. — Hence, and avoid my sight! — 

(To Cordelia. 
So be my grave my peace, as here I give 
Her father's heart from her! — Call France; — who stirs? 
Call Burgundy. — Cornwall, and Albany, 
With my two daughter's dowers digest this third ; 
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her ; 
I do invest you jointly with my power, 
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects 
That troop with majesty. — Ourself, by monthly course, 
With reservation of a hundred knights, 
By you to be sustained, shall our abode 
Make with you by due turns. — Only we still retain 
The name, and all the additions to a king : 
The sway, 

Revenue, execution of the rest, 
Beloved sons, be yours : which to confirm, 
This coronet part between you. {Giving the crown.") 

Kent. Royal Lear, 
Whom I have ever honored as my king, 
Loved as my father, as my master followed, 
As my great patron thought on in my prayers, — 

Lear. The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft. 

Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade 
The region of my heart : be Kent unmannerly 
When Lear is mad. What would'st thou do, old man ? 
Think'st thou, that duty shall have dread to speak, 
When power to flattery bows 1 To plainness honor's bound. 
When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom ; 
And, in thy best consideration, check 
This hideous rashness : answer my life, my judgment, 
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least, 
Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sound 
Reverbs no hollowness. 

Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more. 



DIALOGUE. 295 



WOMAN'S DUTY.— Shakspeare. 

[Present, Petruchio, Baptista, Lucentio, Vincentio, Horatio, Tranio. — En- 
ter Catharine.'] 

Luc. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder. 
Hot. And so it is : I wonder what it bodes. 
Pet . Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life, 
An awful rule, and right supremacy ; 
And, to be short, what not, that's sweet and happy. 

Bap. Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio! 
The wager thou hast won ; and I will add 
Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns ; 
Another dowry to another daughter, 
For she is changed, as she had never been. 

Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet ; 
And show more sign of her obedience, 
Her new-built virtue and obedience. 

(Re-enter Catharine, with Bianca, and Widow.) 
See, where she comes ; and brings your froward wives 
As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. — 
Catharine, that cap of yours becomes you not ; 
Off with that bauble, throw it under foot. 

(Catharine pulls off her cap and throws it down.) 

Wid. Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh, 
Till I be brought to such a silly pass ! 

Bian. Fie ! what a foolish duty call you this ? 

Luc. I would, your duty were as foolish too : 
The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, 
Hast cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time. 

Bian. The more fool you for laying on my duty. 

Pet. Catharine, I charge thee, tell these head-strong women 
"What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. 

Wid. Come, come, you're mocking ; we will have no telling. 

Pet. Come on, I say ; and first begin with her. 

Wid. She shall not. 

Pet. I say, she shall ; — and first begin with her. 

Cath. Fie, fie ! unknit that threat'ning, unkind brow ; 
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, 
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor : 
Tt blots thy beauty, as frosts do bite the meads ; 
Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds ; 
And in no sense is meet or amiable. 



296 young lady's reader. 

A woman moved, is like a fountain troubled, 

Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty ; 

And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty 

Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it. 

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, 

Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that cares for thee, 

And for thy maintenance : commits his body 

To painful labor, both by sea and land ; 

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, 

While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe, 

And craves no other tribute at thy hands, 

But love, fair looks, and true obedience ; — 

Too little payment for so great a debt. 

Such duty as the subject owes the prince, 

Even such a woman oweth to her husband : 

And when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour, 

And not obedient to his honest will, 

What is she, but a foul, contending rebel, 

And graceless traitor to her loving lord 1 

I am ashamed, that women are so simple 

To offer war, where they should kneel for peace, 

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, 

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. 

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth, 

Unapt to toil and trouble in the world ; 

But that our soft conditions and our hearts 

Should well agree with our external parts ? 

Come, come, you froward and unable worms ! 

My mind hath been as big as one of yours, 

My heart as great ; my reason, haply, more, 

To bandy word for word, and frown for frown : 

But now, I see, our lances are but straws ; 

Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, — 

That seeming to be most, which we least are. 

Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot ; 

And place your hands below your husband's foot : 

In token of which duty, if he please, 

My hand is ready, may it do him ease. 

Pet. Why, there's a wench ! — Come on, and kiss me, Kate. 

Luc. Well, go thy ways, old lad ; for thou shalt ha't. 

Yin. 'Tis a good hearing, when children are toward. 

Luc. But a harsh hearing, when women are froward. 

Pet . Come, Kate, we'll to bed : — 



DIALOGUE. 297 

We three are married, but you two are sped. 

'Twas I won the wager, though you hit the white ; 

(To Lucentio.) 
And, being a winner, God give you good night ! 

(Exeunt Petruchio and Cath.) 
Hor. Now go thy ways, thou hast tamed a curst shrew. 
Luc. 'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA.— Mrs. Hemans. 

[Present, Elmina, Gonzalez, Ximena.~\ 

Elmi. Oh ! I have stood 
Beside thee through the beating storms of life, 
With the true heart of unrepining love, 
As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily, 
In the parched vineyard, or the harvest-field, 
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat 
And burden of the day ; — but now the hour, 
The heavy hour is come, when human strength 
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust, 
Owning that wo is mightier! — Spare me yet 
This bitter cup, my husband ! — Let not her, 
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn 
In her unpeopled home, a broken stem, 
O'er its fallen roses dying ! 

Gon. Urge me not, 
Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found 
Worthy a brave man's love, oh ! urge me not 
To guilt, which through the midst of blinding tears, 
In its own hues thou seest not ! — Death may scarce 
Bring aught like this ! 

Elmi. All, all thy gentle race, 
The beautiful beings that around thee grew, 
Creatures of sunshine ! Wilt thou doom them all ? 
— She too, thy daughter — doth her smile unmarked 
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day ? 
Shadows are gathering round her — seest thou not ? 
The misty dimness of the spoiler's breath 
Hangs o'er her beauty, and the face which made 
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send 
With every glance, deep bodings through the soul, 
Telling of early fate. 



298 young lady's header. 

Gon. I see a change 
Far nobler on her brow ! — She is as one, 
Who, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen 
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down 
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute 
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm, 
Beseeming sterner tasks. — Her eye hath lost 
The beam which laughed upon th' awakening heart, 
E'en as morn breaks o'er earth. But far within 
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source 
Lies deeper in the soul. — And let the torch 
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade ! 
The altar-flame, i' th' sanctuary's recess, 
Burns quenchless, being of heaven ! — She hath put on 
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy, 
Even as a breast-plate — Ay, men look on her, 
As she goes forth serenely to her tasks, 
Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh 
Cool draughts to fevered lips ; they look on her, 
Thus moving in her beautiful array 
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair 
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn 
Unto their heavy toils, 

Elmi. And seest thou not 
In that high faith and strong collectedness, 
A fearful inspiration 1 — They have cause 
To tremble, who behold th' unearthly light 
Of high, and, it may be, prophetic thought, 
Investing youth with grandeur! — From the grave 
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child 
Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back 
Into the laughing sunshine. — Kneel with me, 
Ximena, kneel beside me, and implore 
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice 
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied ;. < 
— His children's lives ! 

Xim. Alas ! this may not be, 
Mother ! — 1 cannot. [Exit Xi?nena.) 

Gon. My heroic child ! 
— A terrible sacrifice thou claimest, God! 
From creatures in whose agonizing hearts 
Nature is strong as death ! 



DIALOGUE. 299 

Elmi. Is't thus in thine ? 
Away ! — what time is given thee to resolve 
On ? — what I cannot utter ! — Speak ! thou knowest 
Too well what t would say. 

Gon. Until — ask not ! 
The time is brief. 

Elmi. Thou saidst — I heard not right — 

Gon. The time is brief. 

Elmi. What ! must we burst all ties 
Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined ; 
And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be 
That man, in his cold heartlessness, hath dared 
To number and to mete us forth the sands 
Of hours, nay, moments ? — Why the sentenced wretch, 
He on whose soul there rests a brother's blood 
Poured forth in slumber, is allowed more time 
To wean his turbulent passions from the world 
His presence doth pollute ! — It is not thus ! 
We must have time to school us. 

Gon. We have but 
To bow the head in silence, when heaven's voice 
Calls back the things we love. 

Elmi. Love ! love ! — there are soft smiles and gentle words, 
And there are faces, skillful to put on 
The look we trust in — and 'tis mockery all ! 
— A faithless mist, a desert-vapor wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled ! — There is none, 
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. — It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, 
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, 
The bright glad creature springing in his path 
But as the heir of his great name, the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 
Shall bear his trophies well. — And this is love ! 
This is man's love ! — What marvel 1 — you ne'er made 
Your breast the pillow of his infancy, 
While to the fullness of your heart's glad heavings 
His fair cheek rose and fell ; and his bright hair 
Waved softly to your breath ! — You ne'er kept watch 
Beside him, till the last pale star had set, 



300 young lady's reader. 

And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke 

On your dim, weary eye ; not yours the face 

Which, early faded through fond care for him, 

Hung o'er his sleep, and duly as heaven's light, 

Was there to greet his wakening ! You ne'er smoothed 

His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest, 

Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours 

Had learned soft utterance ; pressed your lip to his 

When fever parched it ; hushed his wayward cries, 

With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! 

No ! these are woman's tasks ! — In these her youth, 

And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, 

Steal from her all unmarked ! — My boys ! my boys ! 

Hath vain affection borne with all for this ? 

— Why were ye given me ? 

Gon. Is there strength in man 
Thus to endure ? — That thou couldst read through all 
Its depths of silent agony, the heart 
Thy voice of wo doth rend ! 

Elmi. Thy heart ! — thy heart !■ — Away ! it feels not now ! 
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man 
Unto the infant's weakness ; nor shall heaven 
Spare you that bitter chastening ! May you live 
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem 
Most heavy to sustain ! — For me, my voice 
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon 
With all forgotten sounds ; my quiet place 
Low with my lovely ones, and we shall sleep, 
Though kings lead armies o'er us, we shall sleep, 
Wrapt in earth's covering mantle ! you the while 
Shall sit within your vast, forsaken halls, 
And hear the wild and melancholy winds 
Moan through their drooping banners, never more 
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up 
Shadows — dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, 
But all — all glorious — conquerors, chieftains, kings, 
To people that cold void ! — And when the strength 
From your right arm hath melted, when the blast 
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more 
A 6ery wakening; if at last you pine 
For the glad voices, and the bounding steps 
Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp 
Of twining arms, and all the joyous light 



DIALOGUE. 301 

Of eyes that laughed with youth, and made your board 
A place of sunshine ; — When those days are come, 
Then, in your utter desolation, turn 
To the cold world, the smiling, faithless world, 
Which hath swept pas,t you long, and bid it quench 
Your soul's deep thirst with fame ! immortal fame ! 
Fame to the sick of heart ! — a gorgeous robe, 
A crown of victory unto him that dies 
I' th' burning waste for water ! 

Gon. This from thee ! 
Now the last drop of bitterness is poured. 
Elmina — I forgive thee! (Exit Elmina.) 

Aid me, heaven ! 

From whom alone is power ! — Oh ! thou hast set 
Duties, so stern of aspect, in my path, 
They almost, to my startled gaze, assume 
The hue of things less hallowed ! Men have sunk 
Unblamed beneath such trials ! — Doth not he 
Who made us know the limits of our strength ? 
My wife ! my sons ! — Away ! I must not pause 
To give my heart one moment's mastery thus ! 



THE PIC COLOMINI.— Schiller. 

[Present, Countess, Max. Piccolomini.'] 
Max. (Peeping in on the stage shyly.) 
Aunt Tertsky ! may I venture 1 (Advances to the middle of the 

stage, and looks around him with uneasiness.) 
She's not here ! 
Where is she ? 

Countess. Look but somewhat narrowly 
In yonder corner, lest perhaps she lie 
Concealed behind that screen. 

Max. There lie her gloves ! (Snatches at them, but the 
Countess takes them herself) 
You unkind lady ! You refuse me this — 
You make it an amusement to torment me. 

Countess. And this the thank you give me for my trouble? 
Max. O, if you felt the oppression at my heart ! 
Since we've been here, so to constrain myself — 
With such poor stealth to hazard words and glances — 
These, these are not my habits ! 

26 



302 young lady's reader 

Countess. You have still 
Many new habits to acquire, young friend ! 
But on this proof of your obedient temper 
I must continue to insist ; and only 
On this condition, can I play the agent 
For your concerns. 

Max. But wherefore comes she not ? 
Where is she ? 

Countess. Into my hands you must place it 
"Whole and entire. Whom could you find, indeed, 
More zealously affected to your interest 1 
No soul on earth must know it — not your father. 
He must not, above all. 

Max. Alas ! what danger ? 
Here is no face on which I might concenter 
All the enraptured soul stirs up within me. 

lady ! tell me. Is all changed around me 1 
Or is it only I ? — I find myself, 

As among strangers ! Not a trace is left 
Of all my former wishes, former joys. 
Where has it vanished to ? There was a time. 
When even, methought, with such a world as this 

1 was not discontented. Now, how flat ! 
How stale ! No life, no bloom, no flavor in it I 
My comrades are intolerable to me. 

My father — even to him I can say nothing. 
My arms, my military duties — ! 
They are such wearying toys ! 

Countess. But, gentle friend ! 
I must entreat it of your condescension, 
You would be pleased to sink your eye, and favor 
With one short glance or two this poor stale world, 
Where even now much, and of much moment, 
Is on the eve of its completion. 

Max. Something, 
I can't but know, is going forward round me. 
I see it gathering, crowding, driving on, 
In wild, uncustomary movements. Well, 
In due time, doubtless, it will reach even me. 
Where think you I have been, dear lady 1 Nay, 
No raillery. The turmoil of the camp, 
The spring-tide of acquaintance rolling in, 
The pointless jest, the empty conversation, 



DIALOGUE. 303 

Oppressed and stiffened me. I gasped for air — 
I could not breathe — I was constrained to fly, 
To seek a silence out for my full heart ; 
And a pure spot wherein to feel my happiness. 
No smiling, Countess ! In the church was I. 
There is a cloister here to the heaven's gate, 
Thither I went, there found myself alone. 
Over the altar hung a holy mother ; 
A wretched painting 't was, yet 't was the friend 
That I was seeking in this moment. Ah, 
How oft have I beheld that glorious form 
In splendor, 'mid ecstatic worshippers ; 
Yet, still it moved me not ! and now at once 
Was my devotion cloudless as my love. 

Countess. Enjoy your fortune and felicity ! 
Forget the world around you. Meantime, friendship 
Shall keep strict vigils for you, anxious, active. 
Only be manageable when that friendship 
Points you the road to full accomplishment. 
How long may it be since you declared your passion ? 

Max. This morning did I hazard the first word. 

Countess. This morning the first time in twenty days ! 

Max. ' Twas at that hunting-castle, betwixt here 
And Nepomuck, where you had joined us, and — 
That was the last relay of the whole journey ! 
In a balcony we were standing mute, 
And gazing out upon the dreary field: 
Before us the dragoons were riding onward, 
The safeguard which the duke had sent us — heavy 
The inquietude of parting lay upon me, 
And trembling ventured I at length these words : 
This all reminds me, noble maiden, that 
To-day I must take leave of my good fortune. 
A few hours more, and you will find a father, 
Will see yourself surrounded by new friends, 
And I henceforth shall be but as a stranger, 
Lost in the many — " Speak with my aunt Tertsky !" 
With hurrying voice she interrupted me. 
She faltered. I beheld a glowing red 
Possess her beautiful cheeks, and from the ground 
Raised slowly up, her eye met mine—no longer 
Did I control myself. [The Princess Thekla appears at the 
door, and remains standing, observed by the Countess, 
but not by Piccolomi?ii.) 



304 young lady's reader. 

"With instant boldness 

I caught her in my arms, my mouth touched hers ; 

There was a rustling in the room close by ; 

It parted us — 'T was you. What since has happened, 

You know. 

Countess, {after a pause, with a stolen glance at Thekla.) 
And is it your excess of modesty ; 
Or are you so incurious, that you do not 
Ask me too of my secret ? 

Max. Of your secret ! 

Countess. Why, yes ! When in the instant after you 
I stepped into the room, and found my niece there, 
What she in this first moment of the heart 
Ta'en with surprise — 

Max. (with eagerness.) Well? 

Scene 4. — Thekla, (hurries forward,) Countess, Max. Picco- 
lomini. 

Thekla. (to the Countess.) Spare yourself the trouble : 
That hears he better from myself. 

Max. (stepping backward. ) My Princess ! 
What have you let her hear me say, aunt Tertsky ? 

Thekla. (to the Countess.) Has he been here long ? 

Countess. Yes ; and soon must go. 
Where have you stayed so long ? 

Thekla. Alas ! my mother 
Wept so again ! and I — I see her suffer, 
Yet cannot keep myself from being happy. 

Max. Now once again I have courage to look on you. 
To-day at noon I could not. 
The dazzle of the jewels that played round you 
Hid the beloved from me. 

Thekla. Then you saw me 
With your eye only — and not with your heart? 

Max. This morning, when I found you in the circle 
Of all your kindred, in your father's arms, 
Beheld myself an alien in this circle, 
O ! what an impulse felt I in that moment 
To fall upon his neck, to call him father I 
But his stern eye o'erpowered the swelling passion — 
It dared not but be silent. And those brilliants, 
That like a crown of stars enwreathed your brow, 
They scared me too ! O wherefore, wherefore should he 
At the first meeting spread as 'twere the ban 



DIALOGUE. 305 

Of excommunication round you, — wherefore 
Dress up the angel as for sacrifice, 
And cast upon the light and joyous heart 
The mournful burthen of his station 1 Fitly 
May love dare woo for love ; but such a splendor 
Might none but monarchs venture to approach. 

Thekla. Hush! not a word more of this mummery ; 
You see how soon the burthen is thrown off. (To tlie Countess.) 
He is not in spirits. Wherefore is he not ? 
'T is you, aunt, that have made him all so gloomy ! 
He had quite another nature on the journey — 
So calm, so bright, so joyous eloquent. (To Max.) 
It was my wish to see you always so, 
And never otherwise ! 

Max. You find yourself 
In your great father's arms, beloved lady ! 
All in a new world, which does homage to you, 
And which, were 't only by its novelty, 
Delights your eye. 

Thekla. Yes ; I confess to you 
That many things delight me here : this camp, 
This motley stage of warriors, which renews 
So manifold the image of my fancy, 
And binds to life, binds to reality, 
What hitherto had but been present to me 
As a sweet dream ! 

Max. Alas ! not so to me. 
It makes a dream of my reality. 
Upon some island in the ethereal heights 
I've lived for these last days. This mass of men 
Forces me down to earth. It is a bridge 
That, reconducting to my former life, 
Divides me and my heaven. 

Thekla. The game of life 
Looks cheerful, when one carries in one's heart 
The unalienable treasure. 'T is a game, 
Which having once reviewed, I turn more joyous 
Back to my deeper and appropriate bliss. 

(Breaking off, and in a sportive tone.) 
In this short time that I've been present here, 
What new, unheard-of things have I not seen ! 
And yet they all must give place to the wonder 
Which this mysterious castle guards. 
* 26* 



306 young lady's reader. 

Countess, (recollecting.) And what 
Can this be then ? Methought I was acquainted 
With all the dusky corners of this house. 

Thekla. (smiling.) Ay, but the road thereto is watched by 
spirits : 
Two griffins still stand sentry at the door. 

Countess, (laughs.) The astrological tower ! How happens it 
That this same sanctuary, whose access 
Is to all others so impracticable, 
Opens before you even at your approach ? 

Thekla. A dwarfish old man with a friendly face, 
And snow-white hairs, whose gracious services 
Were mine at first sight, opened me the doors. 

Max. This is the Duke's astrologer, old Seni. 

Thekla. He questioned me on many points ; for instance, 
When I was born, what month, and on what day, 
Whether by day or in the night. 

Countess. He wished 
To erect a figure for your horoscope. 

Thekla. My hand too he examined, shook his head 
"With much sad meaning, and the lines, methought, 
Did not square over-truly with his wishes. 

Countess. Well, Princess, and what found you in this tower ? 
My highest privilege has been to snatch 
A side-glance, and away ! 

Thekla. It was a strange 
Sensation that came o'er me, when at first 
From the broad sunshine I stepped in ; and now 
The narrowing line of day-light, that ran after 
The closing door, was gone ; and all about me 
'T was pale and dusky night, with many shadows 
Fantastically cast. Here six or seven 
Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me 
In a half- circle. Each one in his hand 
A scepter bore, and on his head a star ; 
And in the tower no other light was there 
But from these stars : all seemed to come from them. 
" These are the planets," said that low old man, 
" They govern worldly fates, and for that cause 
Are imaged here as kings. He farthest from you, 
Spiteful, and cold, an old man melancholy, 
With bent and yellow forehead, he is Saturn. 
He opposite, the king with the red light, 



DIALOGUE. 307 

An armed man for the battle, that is Mars : 
And both these bring but little luck to man." 
But at his side a lovely lady stood, 
The star upon her head was soft and bright, 
And that was Venus, the bright star of joy. 
On the left hand, lo ! Mercury, with wings. 
Quite in the middle glittered silver-bright, 
A cheerful man, and with a monarch's mein ; 
And this was Jupiter, my father's star ; 
And at his side I saw the Sun and Moon. 

Max. O never rudely will I blame his faith 
In the might of stars and angels ! 'T is not merely 
The human being's pride that peoples space 
With life and mystical predominance : 
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love 
This visible nature, and this common world, 
Is all too narrow : yea, a deeper import 
Lurks in the legend told my infant years 
Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn. 
For fable is love's world, his home, his birth-place : 
Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans, 
And spirits ; and delightedly believes 
Divinities, being himself divine. 
The intelligible forms of ancient poets, 
The fair humanities of old religion, 
The power, the beauty, and the majesty, 
That had her haunts in dale, or piny mountain, 
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 
Or chasms and wat'ry depths ; all these have vanished. 
They live no longer in the faith of reason ! 
But still the heart doth need a language, still 
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names, 
And to yon starry world they now are gone, 
Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth 
With man as with their friend ; and to the lover 
Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky 
Shoot influence down : and even at this day 
'T is Jupiter who brings whate'er is great, 
And Venus who brings every thing that's fair ! 

Thekla. And if this be the science of the stars, 
I too, with glad and zealous industry, 
Will learn acquaintance with this cheerful faith. 
It is a gentle and affectionate thought, 



308 young lady's reader. 

That in immeasurable heights above us, 

At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven, 

With sparkling stars for flowers. 

Countess. Not only roses, 
But thorns too hath the heaven ; and well for you 
Leave they your wreath of love inviolate : 
What Venus twined, the bearer of glad fortune, 
The sullen orb of Mars soon tears to pieces. 

Max. Soon will his gloomy empire reach its close. 
Blest be the General's zeal : into the laurel 
Will he inweave the olive-branch, presenting 
Peace to the shouting nations. Then no wish 
Will have remained for his great heart ! Enough 
Has he performed for glory, and can now 
Live for himself and his. To his domains 
Will he retire ; he has a stately seat 
Of fairest view at Gitschin ; Reichenberg, 
And Friedland Castle, both lie pleasantly- 
Even to the foot of the huge mountains here 
Stretches the chase and covers of his forests : 
His ruling passion, to create the splendid, 
He can indulge without restraint ; can give 
A princely patronage to every art, 
And to all worth a sovereign's protection. 
Can build, can plant, can watch the starry courses — 

Countess. Yet I would have you look, and look again, 
Before you lay aside your arms, young friend ! 
A gentle bride, as she is, is well worth it, 
That you should woo and win her with the sword. 

Max. O, that the sword could win her ! 

Countess. What was that ? 
Did you hear nothing? Seemed, as if I heard 
Tumult and larum in the banquet-room. 



THE GAMESTER.— E. Moore. 

[Present, Mrs. Beverley, CJiarlotte.'] 
Mrs. B. Be comforted, my dear, all may be well yet. And 
now, methinks, the lodging begins to look with another face. 
Oh, sister ! sister ! if these were all my hardships ; if all I 
had to complain of were no more than quitting my house, ser- 
vants, equipage, and show, your pity would be weakness. 



DIALOGUE. 309 

Char. Is poverty nothing, then ? 

Mrs. B. Nothing in the world, if it affected only me. 
While we had a fortune, J. was the happiest of the rich ; and 
now 'tis gone, give me but a bare subsistence and my husband's 
smiles, and I shall be the happiest of the poor. Why do you 
look at me ? 

Char. That I may hate my brother. 

Mrs. B. Don't talk so, Charlotte. 

Char. Has he not undone you ? — Oh, this pernicious vice 
of gaining ! but methinks his usual hours of four or five in the 
morning might have contented him. Need he have staid out 
all night ! — I shall learn to detest him. 

Mrs. B. Not for the first fault. He never slept from me 
before. 

Char. Slept from you ! No, no, his nights have nothing to 
do with sleep. How has this one vice driven him from every 
virtue ! — Nay, from his affections too ! — The time was, sister — 

Mrs. B. And is. I have no fear of his affections. Would 
I knew that he were safe ! 

Char. From ruin and his companions. But that's impos- 
sible. His poor little boy, too ! what must become of him? 

Mrs. B. Why, want shall teach him industry. From his 
father's mistakes he shall learn prudence, and from his mother's 
resignation, patience. Poverty has no such terrors in it as you 
imagine. There's no condition of life, sickness and pain ex- 
cepted, where happiness is excluded. The husbandman, who 
rises early to his labor, enjoys more welcome rest at night for't. 
His bread is sweeter to him ; his home happier ; his family 
dearer; his enjoyments surer. The sun that rouses him in the 
morning, sets in the evening to release him. All situations 
have their comforts, if sweet contentment dwell in the heart. 
But my poor Beverly has none. The thought of having ruined 
those he loves is misery forever to him. Would I could ease 
his mind of that ! 

Char. If he alone were ruined, 'twere just he should be 
punished. He is my brother, 'tis true ; but when I think of 
what he has done — of the fortune you brought him — of his 
own large estate too, squandered away upon this vilest of pas- 
sions, and among the vilest of wretches ! oh, I have no patience ' 
My own little fortune is untouched, he says. Would I were 
sure on't. 

Mrs. B. And so you may — 'twould be a sin to doubt it. 



310 young lady's reader. 

Char. I will be sure on't — 'twas madness in me to give it 
to his management. But I'll demand it from him this morning. 
I have a melaucholy occasion for it. 

Mrs. B. What occasion ? 

Char. To support a sister. 

Mrs. B. No ; I have no need on't. Take it, and reward 
a lover with it. The generous Lewson deserves much more. 
Why won't you make him happy ? 

Char. Because my sister's miserable. 

Mrs. B. You must not think so. I have my jewels left 
yet. And when all's gone, these hands shall toil for our sup- 
port. The poor should be industrious. Why those tears, 
Charlotte 1 

Char. They flow in pity for you. 

Mrs. B. All may be well yet. When he has nothing to 
lose, I shall fetter him in these arms again : and then what is it 
to be poor ? 

Char. Cure him but of this destructive passion, and my 
uncle's death may retrieve all yet. 

Mrs. B. Ay, Charlotte, could we cure him ! But the disease 
of play admits no cure but poverty ; and the loss of another 
fortune would but increase his shame and his affliction. Will 
Mr. Lewson call this morning ? 

Char. He said so last night. He gave me hints, too, that 
he had suspicions of our friend Stukely. 

Mrs. B. Not of treachery to my husband ? That he loves 
play, I know ; but surely he's honest. 

Char. He would fain be thought so ; — therefore I doubt 
him. Honesty needs no pains to set itself off. 
{Enter Lucy.) 

Lucy. Your old steward, Madam. I had not the heart to 
deny him admittance, the good old man begged so hard for't. 
{Enter Jarvis.) 

Mrs. B. Is this well, Jarvis ? I desired you to avoid me. 

Jarvis. Did you, Madam ? I am an old man, and had forgot. 
Perhaps, too, you forbade my tears ; but I am old, Madam, and 
age will be forgetful. 

Mrs. B. The faithful creature ! how he moves me ! 

{To Charlotte.) 

Jar. I have forgot these apartments too. I remember 
none such in my young master's house ; and yet I have lived 
in it these five and twenty years. His good father would not 
have dismissed me. 



DIALOGUE. 311 

Mrs. B. He had no reason, Jarvis. 

Jar. I was faithful to him while he lived, and when he 
died he bequeathed me to his son. I have been faithful to 
him too. 

Mrs. B. I know it, I know it, Jarvis. . 

Jar. I have not a long time to live. ,1 asked but to have 
died with him, and he dismissed me. 

Mrs. B. Pr'ythee, no more of this ! 'Twas his poverty 
that dismissed you. 

Jar. Is he indeed so poor, then ? Oh ! he was the joy of 
my old heart — But must his creditors have all ? And have they 
sold his house too ? His father built it when he was but a 
prating boy. The times that I have carried him in these arms ! 
And, Jarvis, says he, when a beggar has asked charity of me, 
why should people be poor ? You sha'n't be poor, Jarvis ; if I 
were a king, nobody should be poor. Yet he is poor. And 
then he was so brave ! Oh ! he was a brave little boy ! and yet 
so merciful, he'd not have killed the gnat that stung him. 

Mrs. B. Speak to him, Charlotte, for I cannot. 

Jar. I have a little money, Madam ; it might have been 
more, but I have loved the poor. All that I have is yours. 

Mrs. B. No, Jarvis ; we have enough yet. I thank you 
though, and I will deserve your goodness. 

Jar. But shall I see my master ? And will he let me attend 
him in his distresses ? I'll be no expense to him ; and 'twill 
kill me to be refused. Where is he, Madam? 

Mrs. B. Not at home, Jarvis. You shall see him another 
time. 

Char. To-morrow, or the next day — Oh, Jarvis ! what a 
change is here. ! 

Jar. A change indeed, Madam ! my old heart aches at it. 

[Scene 2. — Beverly discovered sitting.] 

Bev. Why, what a world is this ! The slave that digs for 
gold receives his daily pittance, and sleeps contented ; while 
those for whom he labors, convert their good to mischief, ma- 
king abundance the means of want. What had I to do with 
play? I wanted nothing. My wishes and my means were 
equal. The poor followed me with blessing, love scattered 
roses on my pillow, and morning waked me to delight. Oh, 
bitter thought, that leads to what I was, by what I am ! I would 
forget both. — Who's there ? 



312 young lady's reader. 

(Enter a Waiter.) 

Wait. A gentleman, Sir, inquires for you. 

Bev. He might have used less ceremony. Stukely, I sup- 
pose 1 

Wait. No, Sir, a stranger. 

Bev. Well, show him in. (Exit Waiter.) A messenger 
from Stukely, then ; from him that has undone me ! yet all in 
friendship — and now he lends me his little to bring back fortune 
to me. 

(Enter J arms.) 
Jarvis ! — Why this intrusion 1 Your absence had been kinder. 

Jar. I came in duty, Sir. If it be troublesome — 

Bev. It is. I would be private — hid even from myself— 
Who sent you hither ? 

Jar. One that would persuade you home again. My mis- 
tress is not well ; her tears told me so. 

Bev. Go with thy duty there then. Pr'ythee begone ; I 
have no business for ihee. 

Jar. Yes, Sir; to lead you from this place. I am your 
servant still. Your prosperous fortune blessed my old age. 
If that has left you, I must not leave you. 

Bev. Not leave me ! Recall past time then ; or, through 
this sea of storms and darkness, show me a star to guide me. 
But what canst thou? 

Jar. The little that I can, I will. You have been gene- 
rous to me — I would not offend you, Sir, but — 

Bev. No : think'st thou I'd ruin thee, too ? I have enough 
of shame already. My wife ! my wife !— Wouldst thou believe 
it, Jarvis? I have not seen her all this long night — I, who 
have loved her so, that every hour of absence seemed as a gap 
in life. But other bonds have held me. Oh ! I have played 
the boy ! dropping my counters in the stream, and reaching to 
redeem them, lost myself ! 

Jar. For pity's sake, sir! — I have no heart to see this 
change. 

Bev. Nor I to bear it. How speaks the world of me, 
Jarvis ? 

Jar. As of a good man dead. Of one who, walking in a 
dream, fell down a precipice. The world is sorry for you. 

Bev. Ay, and pities me — Says it not so ? But I was born 
to infamy. I'll tell thee what it says. It calls me a villain ; 
a treacherous husband ; a cruel father ; a false brother ; one 
lost to nature and her charities : or, to say all in one short word, 



BLANK VERSE. 313 

It calls me — gamester. Go to thy mistress, I'll see her pres- 
ently. 

Jar. And why not now ? Rude people press upon her ; 
loud bawling creditors ; wretches who know no pity. I met 
one at the door ; he would have seen my mistress. I wanted 
means of present payment, so promised it to-morrow. But 
others may be pressing ; and she has grief enough already. 
Your absence hangs too heavy on her. 

Bev. Tell her I'll come, then. I have a moment's business. 
But what hast thou to do with my distresses ? thy honesty has 
left thee poor, and age wants comfort. Keep what thou hast ; 
lest, between thee and the grave, misery steal in. I have a 
friend shall counsel me. This is that friend. 



BLANK VERSE. 



COMUS.— Milton, 

(The Lady enters.) 
This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, 
My best guide now : methought it was the sound 
Of riot and ill-managed merriment, 
Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe, 
Stirs up among the loose unlettered hinds ; 
When for their teeming flocks, and granges full, 
In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, 
And thank the gods amiss. I should be loth 
To meet the rudeness, and swilled insolence, 
Of such late wassailers ; yet, ! where else 
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 
In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ? 
My brothers, when they saw me wearied out 
With this long way, resolving here to lodge 
Under the spreading favor of these pines, 
Stept, as they said, to the next thicket side, 
To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit- 
As the kind hospitable woods provide. 
They left me then, when the gray-hooded even 
Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, 
27 



314 young lady's reader. 

Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain, 
But where they are, and why they came not back, 
Is now the labor of my thoughts ; 'tis likeliest 
They have engaged their wandering steps too far;. 
And envious darkness, ere they could return, 
Had stole them from me : else, thievish night, 
Why should'st thou, but for some felonious end, 
In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars, 
That nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps 
"With everlasting oil, to give due light 
To the mislead and lonely traveler ? 
This is the place, as well as I may guess, 
Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth 
Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear ; 
Yet nought but single darkness do I find. 
What this might be ? A thousand fantasies 
Begin to throng into my memory, 
Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, 
And airy tongues, that syllable men's names 
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. 
These thoughts may startle well, but not astound 
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 
By a strong siding champion, conscience. — 

welcome pure-eyed faith, white-handed hope, 
Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings, 
And thou, unblemished form of chastity ! 

1 see ye visibly, and now believe 

That he, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill 
Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, 
Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, 
To keep my life and honor unassailed. 
Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud 
Turn forth her silver lining on the night ? 
I did not err, there does a sable cloud 
Turn forth her silver lining on the night, 
And casts a gleam over this tufted grove : 
I cannot halloo to my brothers, but 
Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest 
I'll venture ; for my new-enlivened spirits 
Prompt me ; and they perhaps are not far off. 
(Enter Comus.) 
Cornus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mold 
Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment ? 



BLANK VERSE. 315 

Sure something holy lodges in that breast, 

And with these raptures moves the vocal air 

To testify his hidden residence. 

How sweetly did they float upon the wings 

Of silence, through the empty vaulted night. 

At every fall smoothing the raven-down 

Of darkness, till it smiled ! I have oft heard • 

My mother Circe with the Syrens three, 

Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, 

Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs ; 

Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul, 

And lap it in Elysium : Scylla wept, 

And chid her barking waves into attention, 

And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause : 

Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense, 

And in sweet madness robbed it of itself; 

But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 

Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 

I never heard till now, — I'll speak to her, 

And she shall be my queen. 



DALILA.— Miltok. 

But who is this, what thing of sea or land ? 
Female of sex it seems, 
That so bedecked, ornate, and gay, 
Comes this way sailing 
Like a stately ship 
Of Tarsus, bound for the isles 
Of Javan or Gadire 

With all her bravery on, and tackle trim, 
Sails filled, and streamers waving, 
Courted by all the winds that hold them play, 
An amber scent of oderous perfume 
Her harbinger, a damsel train behind ; 
Some rich Philistian matron she may seem ; 
And now at nearer view, no other certain 
Than Dalila thy wife. 



316 young lady's reader. 



HYMN.— Thomson.' 

These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
Thy»beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
And every sense, and every heart, is joy. 
Then comes thy glory in the summer-months, 
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 
Shoots forth perfection through the swelling year : 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. 
Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms 
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, 
Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, 
Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, 
And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, 
Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 
Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art,. 
Such beauty and benevolence combined ; 
Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, 
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring : 
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; 
Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
And, as on earth the grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 

Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 
One general song ! To him, ye vocal gales, 



BLANK VERSE. 317 

Breathe soft',, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes : 
Oh, talk, of him in solitary glooms ; 
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
"Who shake th' astonished world, lift high to heaven 
The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 
And let me catch it as I muse along. 
Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound;. 
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
Sound his stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 
In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts,. 
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints, 
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave to him ; 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep. 
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,. 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
Great source of day ! best image here below 
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide., 
From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
On nature write with every beam his praise. 
The thunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate world ; 
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, 
Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, 
Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; 
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 
Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, 
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm 
The listening shades, and teach the night his praise. 
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, 
Crown the great hymn ! in swarming cities vast, 
27* 



318 young lady's reader. 

Assembled men, to the deep organ join 

The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 

At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; 

And, as each mingling flame increases each, 

In one united ardor rise to heaven. 

Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 

And find a fame in every secret grove ; 

There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 

The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 

Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. 

For me, when I forget the darling theme, 

"Whether the blossom blows, the summer-ray 

Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams ; 

Or winter rises in the blackening east ; 

Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, 

And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. 

Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, 
Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on th' Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me ; 
Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste, as in the city full ; 
And where he vital breathes, there must be joy, 
"When even at last the solemn hour shall come, 
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
I cheerful will obey : there, with new powers, 
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
From seeming evil still seducing good, 
And better thence again, and better still, 
In infinite progression. But I lose 
Myself in him, in light ineffable ; 
Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise. 



MUSICAL ASSOCIATION.— Cowpek. 

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, 
And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased 
With melting air or martial, brisk or grave ; 
Some chord in unison with what we hear 



BLANK VERSE. 319 

Is touched within us, and the heart replies. 

How soft the music of those village bells, 

Falling at intervals upon the ear 

In cadence sweet, now dying all away, 

Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 

Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on ! 

With easy force it opens all the cells 

"Where mem'ry slept. Wherever I have heard 

A kindred melody, the scene recurs, 

And with it all its pleasures and its pains. 



HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.— Willis. 

The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds 
With a strange beauty. Earth received again 
Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, 
And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, 
And every thing that bendeth to the dew, 
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. 

All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light, 
And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad 
To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth 
Was pouring odors from its spicy pores, 
And the young birds were carolling as life 
Were a new thing to them ; but, oh ! it came 
Upon her heart like discord, and she felt 
How cruelly it tries a broken heart, 
To see a mirth in any thing it loves. 
She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed 
Till the blood left them ; and the wandering veins 
Of her transparent forehead were swelled out, 
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye 
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, 
Which made its language legible, shot back 
From her long lashes, as it had been flame. 
Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand 
Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet, 
Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor, 
Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up 
Into his mother's face until he caught 



!20 young lady's reader. 

The spirit there, and his young- heart was swelling 
Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form 
Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath, 
As if his light proportions would have swelled, 
Had they but matched his spirit, to the man. 

Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now 
Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard 
Is low upon his breast, and his high brow, 
So written with the converse of his God, 
Beareth the swollen vein of agony. 
His lip is quivering, and his wonted step 
Of vigor is not there ; and, though the morn 
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes 
Its freshness as it were a pestilence. 
Oh ! man may bear with suffering : his heart 
Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp 
Of pain that wrings mortality ; but tear 
One chord affection clings to, part one tie 
That binds him to woman's delicate love, 
And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed. 

He gave to her the water and the bread, 
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself 
To look upon her face ; but laid his hand, 
In silent blessing, on the fair-haired boy, 
And left her to her lot of loneliness. 

Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn, 
And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, 
Bend lightly to her tendencies again 'I 
O no ! by all her loveliness, by all 
That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! 
Make her a slave ; steal from her cheek the rose, 
By needless jealousies ; let the last star 
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all 
That makes her cup a bitterness — yet give 
One evidence of love, and earth has not 
An emblem of devotedness like hers. 
But, oh ! estrange her once, it boots not how, 
By wrong or silence, any thing that tells 
A change has come upon your tenderness, — 



BLANK VERSE. 321 

And there is not a high thing out of heaven 
Her pride o'ermastereth not. 

She went her way with a strong step and slow ; 
Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, 
As it had been a diamond, and her form 
Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. 
Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed 
His hand till it was pained ; for he had caught, 
As I have said, her spirit, and the seed 
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. 

The morning past, and Asia's sun rode up 
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat, 
The cattle of the hills were in the shade, 
And the bright plumage of the orient lay 
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 
It was an hour of rest ; but Hagar found 
No shelter in the wilderness, and on 
She kept her weary way, until the boy 
Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips 
For water ; but she could not give it him. 
She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,— 
For it was better than the close, hot breath 
Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; 
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes 
Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know 
Why God denied him water in the wild. 
She sat a little longer, and he grew 
Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. 
It was too much for her. She lifted him, 
And bore him farther on, and laid his head 
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; 
And, shrouding up her face, she went away, 
And sat to watch, where he could see her not, 
Till he should die ; and, watching him, she mourned: — 

" God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ; 
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook 

Upon thy brow to look, 
And see death settle on my cradle joy. 
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 

And could I see thee die ? 



322 young lady's reader. 

I did not dream of riiis when thou wast straying, 
Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; 

Or wearing rosy hours, 
By the rich gush of water-sources playing, 
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep 

So beautiful and deep. 

Oh no ! and when I watched by thee the while, 
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, 

And thought of the dark stream 
In my own land of Egypt, the deep Nile, 
How prayed 1 that my father's land might be 

An heritage for thee ! 

And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee, 
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; 

And oh ! my last caress 
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. 
How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there 

Upon his clustering hair !" 

She stood beside the well her God had given 
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
The forehead of her child until he laughed 
In his reviving happiness, and lisped 
His infant thought of gladness at the sight 
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. 



THANATOPSIS.— Bryant. 

To him who, in the love of nature, holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language. For his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And gentle sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 



BLANK VERSE. 323 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, — 

Go forth unto the open sky, and list 

To nature's teachings, while from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 

Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course. Nor yet in the cold ground, 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix forever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 

Yet not to thy eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone ; nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills, 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales, 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty; and the complaining brooks, 
That make the meadow green ; and, poured round all, 
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce ; 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
Save his own dashings ; yet — the dead are there, 



324 young lady's reader. 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall 
Unnoticed by the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, 
The bowed with age, the infant, in the smiles 
And beauty of its innocent age cut off, — 
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, 
By those, who, in their turn, shall follow them. 

So live, that, when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 



SOLITUDE.— Mrs. Sigourney. 

Deep solitude I sought. There was a dell 
Where woven shade shut out the eye of day, 
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made 
Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. Thither I went, 
And bade my spirit drink that lonely draught, 
For which it long had languished 'mid the strife 
And fever of the world. I thought to be 
There without witness. But the violet's eye 
Looked up upon me, — the fresh wild-rose smiled, 
And the young pendant vine-flower kissed my cheek. 
And there were voices too. The garrulous brook, 



BLANK VERSE. 325 

Untiring, to the patient pebbles told 
Its history ; — up came the singing breeze, 
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake 
Responsive, every one. Even busy life 
Woke in that dell. The tireless spider threw 
From spray to spray her silver-tissued snare. 
The wary ant, whose curving pincers pierced 
The treasured grain, toiled toward her citadel. 
To the sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, 
And from the wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird 
Sang to her nurslings. 

Yet I strangely thought 
To be alone, and silent in thy realm, 
Spirit of life and love ! It might not be 
There is no solitude in thy domains, 
Save what man makes, when, in his selfish breast, 
He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief. 
Thou hast not left thyself to nature's round 
Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams, 
Are social and benevolent ; and he 
Who oft communeth in their language pure, 
Roaming among them at the cool of day, 
Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed, 
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart. 



AGE AND MADNESS.— Poixok. 

Wrinkled with time, 
And hoary with the dust of years, an old 
And worthy man came to his humble roof, 
Tottering and slow, and on the threshold stood. 
No foot, no voice, was heard within. None came 
To meet him, where he oft had met a wife, 
And sons, and daughters, glad at his return ; 
None came to meet him ; for that day had seen 
The old man lay, within the narrow house, 
The last of all his family ; and now 
He stood in solitude, in solitude 
Wide as the world ; for all, that made to him 
Society, had fled beyond its bounds. 
Wherever strayed his aimless eye, there lay 
28 



326 young lady's reader. 

The wreck of some fond hope, that touched his soul 

With bitter thoughts, and told him all was passed. 

His lonely cot was silent, and he looked 

As if he could not enter. On his staff, 

Bending, he leaned ; and from his weary eye, 

Distressing sight ! a single tear-drop wept. 

None followed, for the fount of tears was dry. 

Alone and last, it fell from wrinkle down 

To wrinkle, till it lost itself, drunk by 

The withered cheek, on which again no smile 

Should come, or drop of tenderness be seen. 

This sight was very pitiful ; but one 

Was sadder still, the saddest seen in time. 

A man to-day, the glory of his kind, 

In reason clear, in understanding large, 

In judgment sound, infancy quick, in hope 

Abundant, and in promise, like a field 

Well cultured, and refreshed with dews from God ; 

To-morrow, chained, and raving mad, and whipped 

By servile hands ; sitting on dismal straw, 

And gnashing with his teeth against the chain, 

The iron chain, that bound him hand and foot ; 

And trying whiles to send his glaring eye 

Beyond the wide circumference of his wo ; 

Or, humbling more, more miserable still, 

Giving an idiot laugh that served to show 

The blasted scenery of his horrid face ; 

Calling the straw his sceptre, and the stone, 

On which he, pinioned, sat, his royal throne. 

Poor, poor, poor man ! fallen far below the brute ! 

His reason strove in vain to find her way, 

Lost in the stormy desert of his brain ; 

And, being active still, she wrought all strange, 

Fantastic, execrable, monstrous things. 



327 



PASTORAL POETRY. 



A PASTORAL BALLAD —Shenstone. 

Arbusta humilisque myricse. — Virg. 
I. ABSENCE. 

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, 

Whose flocks never carelessly roam ; 
Should Corydon's happen to stray, 

Oh ! call the poor wanderers home. 
Allow me to muse and to sigh, 

Nor talk of the change that ye find ; 
None once was so watchful as I ; 

I have left my dear Phyllis behind. 

Now I know what it is, to have strove 

With the torture of doubt and desire ; 
What it is to admire and to love, 

And to leave her we love and admire. 
Ah ! lead forth my flock in the morn, 

And the damps of each evening repel ; 
Alas ! I am faint and forlorn : — 

I have bid my dear Phyllis farewell. 

Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look, 

I never once dreamt of my vine : 
May I lose both my pipe and my crook, 

If I knew of a kid that was mine ! 
I prized every hour that went by, 

Beyond all that had pleased me before ; 
But now they are past, and I sigh ; 

And I grieve that I prized them no more. 

But why do I languish in vain ; 

Why wander thus pensively here ? 
Oh ! why did I come from the plain, 

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear ? 
They tell me, my favorite maid, 

The pride of that valley, is flown ; 



328 young lady's reader. 

Alas ! where with her I have strayed, 
I could wander with pleasure, alone. 

When forced the fair nymph to forego, , 

What anguish I felt at my heart ! 
Yet I thought — but it might not be so — 

'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. 
She gazed, as I slowly withdrew ; 

My path I could hardly discern ; 
So sweetly she bade me adieu, 

I thought that she bade me return. 

The pilgrim that journeys all day 

To visit some far distant shrine, 
If he bear but a relic away, 

Is happy, nor heard to repine. 
Thus widely removed from the fair, 

Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, 
Soft hope is the relic I bear, 

And my solace wherever I go. 



My banks they are furnished with bees, 

Whose murmur invites one to sleep ; 
My grottos are shaded with trees, 

And my hills are white over with sheep. 
I seldom have met with a loss, 

Such health do my fountains bestow : 
My fountains all bordered with moss, 

Where the hare-bells and violets grow. 

Not a pine in my grove is there seen, 

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound : 
Not a beach's more beautiful green, 

But a sweet-briar entwines it around. 
Not my fields in the prime of the year, 

More charms than my cattle unfold ; 
Not a brook that is limpid and clear, 

But it glitters with fishes of gold. 

One would think she might like to retire 
To the bower I have labored to rear ; 



PASTORAL POETRY. 329 

Not a shrub that I heard her admire, 
But I hasted and planted it there. 

how sudden the jessamine strove 
With the lilac to render it gay ! 

Already it calls for my love, 

To prune the wild branches away. 

From die plains, from the woodlands and groves, 

What strains of wild melody flow ! 
How the nightingales warble their loves 

From the thickets of roses that blow ! 
And when her bright form shall appear, 

Each bird shall harmoniously join 
In a concert so soft and so clear, 

As — she may not be fond to resign. 

1 have found out a gift for my fair ; 

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed : 
But let me that plunder forbear, 

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. 
For he ne'er could be true, she averred, 

Who would rob a poor bird of his young : 
And I loved her the more when I heard 

Such tenderness fall from her tongue. 

I have heard her with sweetness unfold 

How that pity was due to — a dove : 
That it ever attended the bold ; 

And she called it the sister of love. 
But her words such a pleasure convey, 

So much I her accents adore, 
Let her speak, and whatever she say, 

Methinks I should love her the more. 

Can a bosom so gentle remain 

Unmoved when her Corydon sighs 1 
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain, 

These plains and this valley despise 1 
Dear regions of silence and shade ! 

Soft scenes of contentment and ease ; 
Where I could have pleasingly strayed, 

If aught, in her absence, could please. 
28* 



330 young lady's reader. 

But where does my Phyllida stray ? 

And where are her grots and her bowers ? 
Are the groves and the valleys as gay, 

And the shepherds as gentle as ours ? 
The groves may perhaps be as fair, 

And the face of the valleys as fine : 
The swains may in manners compare, 

But their love is not equal to mine. 

III. SOLICITUDE. 

Why will you my passion reprove ? 

Why term it a folly to grieve ? 
Ere I show you the charms of my love, 

She's fairer than you can believe. 
With her mean she enamors the brave ; 

With her wit she engages the free ; 
With her modesty pleases the grave ; 

She is every way pleasing to me. 

you that have been of her train, 
Come and join in my amorous lays ; 

1 could lay down my life for the swain, 

That will sing but a song in her praise. 
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town 

Come trooping, and listen the while ; 
Nay on him let not Phyllida frown ; — 

But I cannot allow her to smile. 

For when Paridel tries in the dance 

Any favor with Phyllis to find, 
how, with one trivial glance, 

Might she ruin the peace of my mind! 
In ringlets he dresses his hair, 

And his crook is bestudded around ; 
And his pipe — oh my Phyllis, beware 

Of a magic there is in the sound. 

'Tis his with mock passion to glow, 
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, 

How her face is as bright as the snow, 
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. 

How the nightingales labor the strain, 
With the notes of his charmer to vie ; 



PASTORAL POETRY. 331 

How they vary their accents in vain, 
Repine at her triumphs, and die. 

To the grove or the garden he strays, 

And pillages every sweet ; 
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays, 

He throws it at Phyllis's feet. 
" Phyllis," he whispers, " more fair, 

More sweet than the jessamine's flower ! 
What are pinks in a morn to compare ? 

What is eglantine after a shower 1 

" Then the lily no longer is white ; 

The rose is deprived of its bloom ; 
Then the violets die with despite, 

And the woodbines give up their perfume." 
Thus glide the soft numbers along, 

And he fancies no shepherd his peer ; — 
Yet I never should envy the song, 

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. 

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, 

So Phyllis the trophy despise : 
Let his forehead with laurels be crowned, 

So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. 
The language that flows from the heart, 

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue ; — 
Yet may she beware of his art, 

Or sure I must envy the song. 

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay, 

And take no more heed of my sheep ; 
They have nothing to do but to stray ; 

I have nothing to do but to weep. 
Yet do not my folly reprove ; 

She was fair — and my passion begun ; 
She smiled — and I could not but love ; 

She is faithless — and I am undone. 

Perhaps I was void of all thought : 

Perhaps it was plain to foresee, 
That a nymph so complete would be sought 

By a swain more engaging than me. 



.32 young lady's reader. 

Ah ! love every hope can inspire ; 

It banishes wisdom the while ; 
And the lip of the nymph we admire 

Seems for ever adorned with a smile. 

She is faithless, and I am undone ; 

Ye that witness the woes I endure, 
Let reason instruct you to shun 

What it cannot instruct you to cure. 
Beware how you loiter in vain 

Amid nymphs of a higher degree : 
It is not for me to explain 

How fair, and how fickle they be. 

Alas ! from the day that we met, 

What hope of an end of my woes ? 
When I cannot endure to forget 

The glance that undid my repose. 
Yet time may diminish the pain : 

The flower, the shrub, and the tree, 
Which I reared for her pleasure in vain, 

In time may have comfort for me. 

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, 

The sound, of a murmuring stream, 
The peace which from solitude flows, 

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. 
High transports are shown to the sight, 

But we're not to find ihem our own ; 
Fate never bestowed such delight, 

As I with my Phyllis had known. 

ye woods, spread your branches apace ; 
To your deepest recesses I fly ; 

1 would hide with the beasts of the chase ; 

I would vanish from every eye. 
Yet my reed shall resound through the grove 

With the same sad complaint it begun : 
How she smiled — and I could not but love ; 

Was faithless — and I am undone ! 



333 



LYRIC POETRY. 



THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM.— King David. 

The Lord is my shepherd ; I shall not want. He maketh me 
to tie down in green pastures : he leadeth me beside the still 
waters. He restoreth my soul : he leadeth me in the paths of 
righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through 
the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil ; for 
thou art with me ; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine ene- 
mies : thou anointest my head with oil ; my cup runneth over. 
Surely goodness and mercy s'hall follow me all the days of my 
life : and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 



KINDRED HEARTS.— Mrs. Hemans. 

Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below ; 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow : 
Few — and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this life of ours 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky, 

Where the rich sunset burns : 
It may be that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 

A dre-am, to his unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times — 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes, 

The sound of waves by night ; 



334 young lady's reader. 

The wind that, with so many a tone, 
Some chord within can thrill, — 

These may have language all thine own, 
To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly, that from childhood grew, 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part, 
And watched through sickness by thy bed,- 

Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made, 

Wherein bright spirits blend, 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, 

With the same breeze that bend, 
For that full bliss of thought allied, 

Never to mortals given, — ■ 
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside, 

Or lift them unto heaven. 



MIRIAM'S SONG.— Moore. 

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! 
Jehovah has triumphed, — his people are free. 
Sing — for the pride of the tyrant is broken, 

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, 
How vain was their boasting ! the Lord hath but spoken, 

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. 
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! 
Jehovah has triumphed, — his people are free. 

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord, 

His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword ! 

Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? 
For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar of glory, 

And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. 
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! 
Jehovah has triumphed, — his people are free. 



LYRIC POETRY. 335 



NEW ENGLAND.— Percival. 

Hail to the land whereon we tread, 

Our fondest boast ; 
The sepulcher of mighty dead, 
The truest hearts that ever bled, 
Who sleep on glory's brightest bed, 

A fearless host : 
No slave is here — our unchained feet 
Walk freely, as the waves that beat 

Our coast. 

Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave 

To seek this shore ; 
They left behind the coward slave 
To welter in his living grave ; 
With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, 

They sternly bore 
Such toils as meaner souls had quelled ; 
But souls like these, such toils impelled 

To soar. 

Hail to the morn when first they stood 

On Bunker's height, 
And, fearless, stemmed the invading floods 
And wrote our dearest rights in blood, 
And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, 

In desperate fight ! 
O ! 't was a proud, exulting day, 
For e'en our fallen fortunes lay 

In light. 

There is no other land like thee, 

No dearer shore ; 
Thou art the shelter of the free ; 
The home, the port of liberty, 
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, 

Till time is o'er. 
Ere I forget to think upon 
My land, shall mother curse the sort 

She bore. 

Thou art the firm, unshaken rock 
On which we rest ; 



336 young lady's reader. 

And, rising from thy hardy stock, 
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, 
And slavery's galling chains unlock, 

And free the oppressed : 
All, who the wreath of freedom twine, 
Beneath the shadow of their vine 

Are blest. 

We love thy rude and rocky shore, 

And here we stand — 
Let foreign navies hasten o'er, 
And on our heads their fury pour, 
And peal their cannon's loudest roar, 

And storm our land : 
They still shall find, our lives are given 
To die for home ; — and leant on heaven 
Our hand. 



A REGRET FOR CHILDHOOD.— Bulwer. 

It is not that our earlier heaven 

Escapes its April showers, 
Or that to childhood's heart is given 
No snake amid the flowers. 

Ah ! twined with grief 
Each brightest leaf 
That's wreathed us by the hours ! 
Young though we be, the past may sting, 

The present feed its sorrow : 
But hope shines bright on every thing 
That waits us with the morrow. 
Like sunlit glades, 
The dimmest shades, 
Some rosy beam can borrow. 

It is not that our later years 

Of cares are woven wholly, 
But smiles less swiftly chase the tears, 
And wounds are healed more slowly ; 
And memory's vow 
To lost ones now, 
Makes joys too bright, unholy. 



LYRIC POETRY. 

And ever fled the Iris-bow 

That smiled when clouds were o'er us ; 
If storms should burst, uncheered we go, 
A dreary waste before us ;— 

And, with the toys 
Of childish joys, 
We've broke the staff that bore us ! 



337 



HYMN TO DIANA.— Ben Jonson. 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep ; 

Seated in thy silver car, 

State in wonted manner keep. 

Hesperus entreats thy light, 

Goddess excellently bright ! 

Earth ! let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear when day did close 
Bless us then with wished sight, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 

And thy chrystal-shining quiver ; 

Give unto the flying heart, 

Space to breathe, how short, soever, 

Thou that mak'st a day of night, 

Goddess excellently bright ! 



SONG.— Moore. 

Oh ! think not my spirits are always as light, 

And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now, 
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night, 

Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. 
No, life is a waste of wearisome hours, 

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ; 
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flow'rs, 

Is always the first to be touched by the thorns ! 
29 



338 young lady's reader. 

The thread of our life would be dark, heaven knows ! 

If it were not with friendship and love intertwined ; 
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, 

When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind ; 
But they who have loved, the fondest, the purest, 

Who often have wept o'er the dream they believed ; 
And the heart that has slumbered in friendship securest, 

Is happy, indeed, if 't was never deceived. 



THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.— Heber. 

Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not deplore thee, 
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb: 

Thy Savior has passed through its portal before thee, 
And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom ! 

Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, 
Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side ; 

But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, 
And sinners may die, for the sinless has died ! 

Thou art gone to the grave ! and, its mansion forsaking, 
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long ; 

But the mild rays of paradise beamed on thy waking, 

And the sound which thou heardst was the seraphim's song ! 

Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not deplore thee, 
Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide ; 

He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee, 
And death has no sting, for the Savior has died ! 



DEDICATION HYMN.— Pierpont. 

Borne by the tempest, on we sail 

O'er ocean's billowy way; 
One glorious orb by day we hail, 

By night one faithful ray. 

Thus God his undivided light 
Pours on life's troubled wave ; 



LYRIC POETRY. ' 339 

Thus hope, meek star, through death's still night 
Looks on the christian's grave. 

Monarch of heaven, Eternal One, 

On thee our spirit calls ; 
To thee, as followers of thy Son, 

We consecrate these walls. 

These arches, springing to the sky ; 

This lightly swelling dome, 
That lifts to heaven its starry eye, — 

Be these, O God, thy home. 

And wilt thou, Omnipresent, deign 

Within these walls to dwell? 
Then shalt thou hear our holiest strain, 

Our organ's proudest swell. 

Devotion's eye shall drink the light 

That richly gushes through 
Our simple dome of spotless white, 

From thine, of cloudless blue. 

And faith, and penitence, and love, 

And gratitude, shall blend 
To thee : — hear them from above, 

Our Father and our friend. 



THE DAISY.— J. M. Good. 

Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep 
Need we to tell a God is here, 

The daisy, fresh from winter's sleep, 
Tells of the hand in lines as clear. 

What power but His who arched the skies, 
And poured the day-spring's purple flood, 

Wondrous alike in all it tries, 

Could raise the daisy's curious bud : 

Mold its green cup — its wiry stem ; 
Its fringed border nicely spin, 



340 young lady's reader. 

And cut the gold-embossed gem, 
That set in silver gleams within ; 

And fling it with a hand so free, 
O'er hill and dale and desert sod, 

That man, where e'er he walks, may see 
In every step the stamp of God ? 



DIDACTIC POETRY. 



TRUTH— Cowpek. 

All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades 
Like the fair flower disheveled in the wind ; 
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 
The man we celebrate must find a tomb, 
And we that worship him, ignoble graves. 
Nothing is proof against the general curse 
Of vanity, that seizes all below. 
The only amaranthine flower on earth 
Is virtue ; th' only lasting treasure, truth. 
But what is truth ? 'T was Pilate's question put 
To Truth itself, that deigned him no reply. 
And wherefore ? will not God impart his light 
To them that ask it? — Freely — 'tis his joy, 
His glory, and his nature to impart. 
But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, 
Or negligent enquirer, not a spark. 
What's that, which brings contempt upon a book, 
And him who writes it, though the style be neat, 
The method clear, and argument exact ? 
That makes a minister in holy things 
The joy of many, and the dread of more; 
His name a theme for praise and for reproach? — 
That, while it gives us worth in God's account, 
Depreciates and undoes us in our own ? 
What pearl is it, that rich men cannot buy, 



DIDACTIC POETRY". 341 

That learning is too proud to gather up ; 
But which the poor, and the despised of all, 
Seek and obtain, and often find unsought ? 
Tell me — and I will tell thee what is truth. 



TASTE.— Akenside. 

What then is taste, but these internal powers 
Active, and strong, and feelingly alive 
To each fine impulse 1 a discerning sense 
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust 
From things deformed, or disarranged, or gross 
In species ? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold. 
Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow ; 
But God alone when first his active hand 
Imprints the secret bias of the soul. 
He, mighty parent I wise and just in all, 
Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven, 
Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain 
Who journeys homeward from a summer day's 
Long labor, why, forgetful of his toils 
And due repose, he loiters to behold 
The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds, 
O'er all the western sky ; full soon, I ween, 
His rude expression and untutored airs, 
Beyond the power of language, will unfold 
The form of beauty smiling at his heart, 
How lovely ! how commanding ! But though heaven 
In every breast hath sown these early seeds 
Of love and admiration, yet in vain, 
Without fair culture's kind parental aid, 
Without enlivening suns, and genial showers, 
And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope 
The tender plant should rear its blooming head, 
Or yield the harvest promised in its spring. 
Nor yet will every soil with equal stores 
Repay the tiller's labor ; or attend 
His will, obsequious, whether to produce 
The olive or the laurel. Different minds 
Incline to different objects ; one pursues 
The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ; 

29* 



342 young lady's reader. 

Another sighs for harmony, and grace, 

And gentlest beauty. Hence, when lightning fires 

The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground ; 

When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, 

And ocean, groaning from its lowest bed, 

Heaves its tempestuous billows to the sky ; 

Amid the mighty uproar, while below 

The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad 

From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys 

The elemental war. But Waller longs, 

All on the margin of some flowery stream, 

To spread his careless limbs amid the cool 

Of plantain shades, and to the listening deer 

The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain 

Resound soft-warbling all the live-long day ; 

Consenting zephyr sighs ; the weeping rill 

Joins in his plaint, melodious ; mute the groves ; 

And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn. 

Such and so various are the tastes of men. 



THE PASTOR'S PRAYER.— Wordsworth. 

" Eternal Spirit ! universal God ! 
Power inaccessible to human thought, 
Save by degrees and steps which Thou hast deigned 
To furnish ; for this effluence of Thyself, 
To the infirmity of mortal sense 
Vouchsafed ; this local transitory type 
Of thy paternal splendors, and the pomp 
Of those who fill thy courts in highest heaven, 
The radiant Cherubim ; — accept the thanks 
Which we, thy humble creatures, here convened, 
Presume to offer ; we, who from the breast 
Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 
The faint reflections only of thy face, 
Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 
Such as they are who in thy presence stand 
Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
Imperishable majesty streamed forth 
From thy empyreal throne, the elect of earth 
Shall be — divested at the appointed hour 



DIDACTIC POETRY. 343 

Of all dishonor — cleansed from mortal stain. — 
Accomplish, then, their number ; and conclude 
Time's weary course ! Or if, by thy decree, 
The consummation that will come by stealth 
Be yet far distant, let thy word prevail, 
Oh ! let thy word prevail, to take away 
The sting of human nature. Spread the law, 
As it is written in thy holy book, 
Throughout all lands : let every nation hear 
The high behest, and every heart obey ; 
Both for the love of purity, and hope 
Which it affords to such as do thy will 
And persevere in good, that they shall rise, 
To have a nearer view of Thee, in heaven. 
Father of good ! this prayer in bounty grant, 
In mercy grant it to thy wretched sons. 
Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease, 
And cruel wars expire. The way is marked, 
The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. 
Alas ! the nations, who of yore received 
These tidings, and in christian temples meet 
The sacred truth to acknowledge, linger still ; 
Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
Proffered to all, while yet on earth detained. 



SATIRE. 



REVIEWERS .—Byron. 

A man must serve his time to every trade, 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault ; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 
Fear not to lie, 't will seem a lucky hit ; 



344 young lady's reader. 

Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caressed. 

And shall we own such judgment? no — as soon 
Seek roses in December, ice in June ; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 
Believe a woman, or an epitaph ; 
Or any other thing that's false, before 
You trust in critics who themselves are sore ; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Bosotian head. 



A CONCEITED COXCOMB.— Shakspeare. 

A man in all the world's new fashion planted, 
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain : 
One, whom the music of his own vain tongue 
Doth ravish, like enchanting harmony : 
A man of compliments, whom right and wrong 
Have chose as umpire of their meeting. 



THE HYPOCRITE.— Pollok. 

He was a man 
Who stole the livery of the court of heaven, 
To serve the devil in ; in virtue's guise, 
Devoured the widow's house and orphan's bread ; 
In holy phrase, transacted villanies 
That common sinners durst not meddle with. 
At sacred feast, he sat among the saints, 
And with his guilty hands touched holiest things. 
And none of sin lamented more, or sighed 
More deeply, or with graver countenance, 
Or longer prayer, wept o'er the dying man, 
Whose infant children, at the moment, he 
Planned how to rob. In sermon style he bought, 
And sold, and lied ; and salutations made 
In scripture terms. He prayed by quantity, 
And with his repetitions long and loud, 
All knees were weary. With one hand he put 
A penny in the urn of poverty, 



SATIRE. 345 

And with the other took a shilling out. 

On charitable lists, — those trumps which told 

The public ear, who had in secret done 

The poor a benefit, and half the alms 

They told of, took themselves to keep them sounding, — ■ 

He blazed his name, more pleased to have it there 

Than in the book of life. Seest thou the man ! 

A serpent with an angel's voice ! a grave 

With flowers bestrewed ! and yet few were deceived. 

His virtues being over-done, his face 

Too grave, his prayers too long, his charities 

Too pompously attended, and his speech 

Larded too frequently and out of time 

With serious phraseology, — were rents 

That in his garments opened in spite of him, 

Through which the well-accustomed eye could see 

The rottenness of his heart. None deeper blushed, 

As in the all-piercing light he stood, exposed, 

No longer herding with the holy ones. 

Yet still he tried to bring his countenance 

To sanctimonious seeming ; but, meanwhile, 

The shame within, now visible to all, 

His purpose balked. The righteous smiled, and evee 

Despair itself some signs of laughter gave, 

As ineffectually he strove to wipe 

His brow, that inward guiltiness defiled. 

Detected wretch ! of all the reprobate, 

None seemed maturer for the flames of hell, 

Where still his face, from ancient custom wears 

A holy air which says to all that pass 

Him by, " I was a hypocrite on earth." 



LOVE OF ADMIRATION,— Young. 

Britania's daughters, much more fair than nice, 
Too fond of admiration, lose their price ; 
Worn in die public eye, give cheap delight 
To throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight : 
As unreserved, and beauteous, as the sun, 
Through every sign of vanity they run; 
Assemblies, parks, coarse feasts in city-halls ; 
Lectures, and trials, plays, committees, balls, 



346 young lady's reader. 

Wells, bedlams, executions, Smithfield scenes, 
And fortune-tellers, caves, and lion's dens, 
Taverns, exchanges, bridewells, drawing rooms, 
Instalments, pillories, coronations, tombs, 
Tumblers, and funerals, puppet-shows, reviews, 
Sales, races, rabbits, (and still stranger !) pews. 

Clarinda's bosom burns, but burns for fame ; 
And love lies vanquished in a nobler flame ; 
Warm gleams of hope she now dispenses ; then 
Like April suns, dives into clouds again: 
With all her luster, now, her lover warms ; 
Then out of ostentation, hides her charms ; 
'T is next, her pleasure sweetly to complain, 
And to be taken with a sudden pain ; 
Then, she starts up, all exstacy and bliss, 
And is, sweet soul ! just as sincere in this : 

how she rolls her charming eyes in spite ! 
And looks delightfully with all her might ! 

But, like our heroes, much more brave than wise, 
She conquers for the triumph, not the prize. 

Lemira 's sick ; make haste ; the doctor call : 
He comes ; but where's his patient ? At the ball. 
The doctor stares ; her woman curt'sies low, 
And cries, " my lady, sir, is always so : 
Diversions put her maladies to flight; 
True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night: 

1 've known my lady (for she loves a tune) 
For fevers take an opera in June : 

And, though perhaps you '11 think the practice bold, 
A midnight park is sovereign for a cold. 



MERCENARY LOVE.— Holmes. 

0, 1 did love her dearly, 

And gave her toys and rings, 
And thought she meant sincerely, 

When she took my pretty things : 
But her heart has grown as icy 

As a fountain in the fall ; 
And her love, that was so spicy, 

It did not last at all. 



SATIRE. 347 



I gave her once a locket, 

It was filled with my own hair, 
And she put it in her pocket 

With very special care. 
But a jeweller has got it — 

He offered it to me, 
And another, that is not it, 

Around her neck I see. 

Before the gates of fashion 

I daily bent my knee ; 
But I sought the shrine of passion, 

And I found my idol — thee. 
Though never love intenser 

Had bowed a soul before it, — 
Thine eye was on the censer, 

And not the hand that bore it. 



AFFECTED GRAVITY.— Shakspeare. 

There are a sort of men, whose visages 
Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond; 
And do a willful stillness entertain, 
"With purpose to be dressed in an opinion 
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit ; 
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle, 
And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark ! 
O, my Antonio, I do know of these, 
That therefore only are reputed wise 
For saying nothing. 



348 



SONNETS. 



LIFE'S DECAY.— Shakspeare. 

That time of year thou may'st in me behold, 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,— 
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day, 
As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
"Which by and by black night doth take away, 
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
"Consumed with that which it was nourished by. 
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, 
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 



C CONFIRMATION.— Words worth. 

The young ones gathered in from hill and dale, 
With holiday delight on every brow: 
'Tis passed away ; far other thoughts prevail, 
For they are taking the baptismal vow, 
Upon their conscious selves ; their own lips speak 
The solemn promise. Strongest sinews fail, 
And many a blooming, many a lovely cheek 
Under the holy fear of God turns pale, 
While on each head his lawn-robed servant lays 
An apostolic hand, and with prayer seals 
The covenant. The Omnipotent will raise 
Their feeble souls ; and bear with Ms regrets, 
Who, looking round the fair assemblage, feels 
That ere the sun goes down their childhood sets. 

I saw a mother's eye intensely bent 
Upon a maiden trembling as she knelt ; 
In and for whom the pious mother felt 



SONNETS. 349 

Things that we judge of by a light too faint: 

Tell, if ye may, some star-crowned muse, or saint ! 

Tell what rushed in, from what she was relieved — 

Then, when her child the hallowing touch received, 

And such vibration to the mother went 

That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams appear ? 

Opened a vision of that blissful place 

Where dwells a sister-child ? And was power given 

Part of her lost one's glory back to trace 

Even to this rite ? For thus she knelt, and, ere 

The summer-leaf had faded, passed to heaven. 



SONNET TO . Bryant. 

Ay, thou art for the grave ; thy glances shine 

Too brightly to shine long ; another spring 
Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine, 

Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. 
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, 

Nor the vexed ore a mineral of power, 
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief 

Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. 
Glide softly to thy rest then ! Death should come 

Gently to one of gentle mold like thee, 
As light winds, wandering through groves of bloom, 

Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. 
Close thy sweet eyes calmly, and without pain ; 
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again ! 



THE LITURGY.— Wordsworth. 

Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear 
Attract us still, and passionate exercise 
Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies 
Distinct with signs — through which, in fixedcareer, 
As through the zodiac, moves the ritual year 
Of England's church — stupendous mysteries ! 
Which whoso travels in her bosom, eyes 
As he approaches them, with solemn cheer. 
Enough for us to cast a transient glance 
30 



350 young lady's reader. 

The circle through ; relinquishing its story 
For those whom heaven hath titled to advance. 
And, harp in hand, rehearse the King of Glory- 
From his mild advent till his countenance 
Shall dissipate the seas and mountains hoary. 



DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 



PORTRAITS .—Proctor. 

Then came a dark browed spirit, on whose head 
Laurel and withering roses loosely hung ; 
She held a harp, amongst whose chords her hand 
Wandered for music — and it came : she sang 
A song despairing, and the whispering winds 
Seemed envious of her melody, and streamed 
Amidst the wires, to rival her, in vain. 
Short was the strain, but sweet : methought it spoke 
Of broken hearts, and still and moonlight seas, 
Of love, and loneliness, and fancy gone, 
And hopes decayed for ever : and my ear 
Caught well-remembered names, ' Leucadia's rock,' 
At times, and ' faithless Phaon.' Then the form 
Passed not, but seemed to melt in air away : 
This was the Lesbian Sappho. 
At last came one whom none could e'er mistake 
Amidst a million : Egypt's dark-eyed queen : 
The love, the spell, the bane of Anthony. 
O, Cleopatra! who shall speak of thee? 
Gaily, but like the Empress of a land 
She moved, and light as a wood-nymph in her prime, 
And crowned with costly gems, whose single price 
Might buy a kingdom — yet how dim they shone 
Beneath the magic of her eye, whose beams 
Flashed love and languishment: of varying humors 
She seemed, yet subtle in her wildest mood, 
As guile were to her passions ministrant. 
At last she sank as dead. A noxious worm 



DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 351 

Fed on those blue and wandering veins that laced 
Her rising bosom : aye, did sleep upon 
The pillar of Anthony, and left behind, 
In dark requital for its banquet, — death. 



SABBATH EVENING IN AN INFECTED CITY.— Wilson. 

Oh, unrejoicing Sabbath ! not of yore 
Did thy sweet evenings die along the Thames 
Thus silently ! Now every sail is furled, 
The oar hath dropped from out the rower's hand, 
And on thou flow'st in lifeless majesty, 
River of a desert lately filled with joy ! 
O'er all that mighty wilderness of stone 
The air is clear and cloudless as at sea 
Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead, 
And not one single wreath of smoke ascends 
Above the stillness of the towers and spires. 
How idly hangs that arch magnificent 
Across the idle river! Not a speck 
Is seen to move along it. There it hangs, 
Slill as a rainbow in the pathless sky ! 



THE CONTRAST.— H. Sivhth. 
Written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb., 1820. 

I saw him last on this terrace proud, 

Walking in health and gladness ; 
Begirt with his court, and in all the crowd, 

Not a single look of sadness. 

Bright was the sun, and the leaves were green,- 

Blithely the birds were singing ; 
The cymbal replied to the tambourine, 

And the bells were merrily ringing. 

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, 

When not a word was spoken, 
But every eye was dim with a tear, 

And the silence by sobs was broken. 



352 young lady's reader. 

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour, 
To the muffled drum's deep rolling ; 

While the minute gun, with its solemn roar, 
Drowned the death-bell's tolling. 

The time since he walked in his glory thus, 
, To the grave till I saw him carried, 
Was an age of the mightiest change to us, 
But to him a night unvaried. 

We had fought the fight ; from his lofty throne 
The foe of our land we had tumbled, 

And it gladdened each eye — save his alone 
For whom that foe we humbled. 

A daughter beloved — a queen — a son-^- 
And a son's sole child had perished ; — 

And sad was each heart, save the only one 
By which they were fondest cherished. 

For his eyes were sealed, and his mind was dark, 

And he sat in his age's lateness, 
Like a vision throned, — as a solemn mark 

Of the frailty of human greatness. 

His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread, 

Unvexed by life's commotion, 
Like a yearly-lengthening snow-drift shed 

On the calm of a frozen ocean. 

Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay, 

Though the stream of time kept flowing ; 

When they spoke of our king 't was but to say, 
That the old man's strength was going. 

He is gone at length. He is laid in dust — 
Death's hand his slumbers breaking, 

For the coffined sleep of the good and just 
Is a sure and blissful waking. 

His people's heart is his funeral urn ; 

And should a sculptured stone be denied him, 
There will his name be found, when in turn 

We lay our heads beside him. 



DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. £53 

THE COMBAT.— Scott. 

Their warning blast the bugles blew, 

The pipe's shrill port aroused each clan ; 

In haste, the deadly strife to view, 
The trooping warriors eager ran : 

Thick round the lisls their lances stood, 

Like blasted pines in Ettrick wood ; 

To Branksome many a look they threw, 

The combatants' approach to view, 

And bandied many a word of boast, 

About the knight each favored most. 

Meantime full anxious was the dame, 

For now arose disputed claim, 

Of who should fight for Deloraine, 

'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestane : 
They 'gan to reckon kin and rent, 
And frowning brow on brow was bent; 

But yet not long the strife — for lo ! 
Himself, the knight of Deloraine, 
Strong, as it seemed, and free from pain, 
In armor sheathed from top to toe, 

Appeared, and craved the combat due. 

The dame her charm successful knew, 

And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew. 

When for the lists they sought the plain, 
The stately Ladye's silken rein 

Did noble Howard hold; 
Unarmed by her side he walked, 
And much, in courteous phrase, they talked 

Of feats of arms of old. 
Costly his garb — his Flemish ruff 
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff, 

With satin slashed and lined ; 
Tawny his boot, and gold his spur, 
His cloak was all of Poland fur, 

His hose with silver twined ; 
His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt, 
Hung in a broad and studded belt ; 
Hence, in rude phrase, the borderers still 
Called noble Howard, Belted Will. 
30* 



354 young lady's reader. 

Behind Lord Howard and the dame, 
Fair Margaret on her palfrey came, 

Whose foot-cloth swept the ground ; 
"White was her wimple and her veil, 
And her loose locks a chaplet pale 

Of whitest roses bound. 
The lordly Angus, by her side, 
In courtesy to cheer her tried ; 
Without his aid, her hand in vain 
Had strove to guide her broidered rein. 
He deemed she shuddered at the sight 
Of warriors met for mortal fight ; 
But cause of terror, all unguessed, 
Was fluttering in her gentle breast, 
When, in their chairs of crimson placed, 
The dame and she the barriers graced. 

Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch 
An English knight led forth to view : 
Scarce rued the boy his present plight, 
So much he longed to see the fight. 
Within the lists, in knightly pride, 
High Home and haughty Dacre ride ; 
Their leading staff's of steel they wield, 
As marshals of the mortal field ; 
While to each knight their care assigned 
Like vantage of the sun and wind. 
Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim, 
In king and queen, and wardens' name, 

That none, while lasts the strife, 
Should dare, by look, or sign, or word, 
Aid to a champion to afford, 

On peril of his life ; 
And not a breath the silence broke, 
Till thus the alternate heralds spoke : — 

ENGLISH HERALD. 

" Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, 
Good knight and true, and freely born, 

Amends from Deloraine to crave, 

For foul despiteous scathe and scorn ; 

He sayeth, that William of Deloraine 
Is traitor false by border laws : 



DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 355 

This with his sword he will maintain, 

So help him God, and his good cause !" — 

SCOTTISH HERALD. 

" Here standeth William of Deloraine, 
Good knight and true, of noble strain, 
Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain, 

Since he bore arms, ne'er soiled his coat : 

And that, so help him God above ! 

He will on Musgrave's body prove, 
He lies most foully in his throat. " — 

LORD DACRE. 

" Forward, brave champions, to the fight 
Sound trumpets !" — 

LORD HOME. 

" God defend the right !" — 

Then, Teviot ! how thine echoes rang, 
When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang 

Let loose the martial foes, 
And in mid list, with shield poised high, 
And measured step and wary eye, 

The combatants did close. 

Ill would it suit your gentle ear, 

Ye lovely listeners, to hear 

How to the axe the helms did sound, 

And blood poured down from many a wound ; 

For desperate was the strife and long, 

And either warrior fierce and strong. 

But, were each dame a listening knight, 

I well could tell how warriors fight ; 

For I have seen war's lightning flashing, 

Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing, 

Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing, 

And scorned, amid the reeling strife, 

To yield a step for death or life. 

'T is done, 't is done ! that fatal blow 
Has stretched him on the bloody plain ; 

He strives to rise — brave Musgrave, no ! 
Thence never shalt thou rise again! 



356 young lady's reader. 

He chokes in blood — some friendly hand 

Undo the visor's barred band, 

Unfix the gorget's iron clasp, 

And give him room for life to gasp!— 

O, bootless aid ! — haste, holy friar, 

Haste, ere the sinner shall expire! 

Of all his guilt let him be shriven, 

And smooth his path from earth to heaven ! 

In haste the holy friar sped ; — 
His naked foot was dyed with red, 

As through the lists he ran ; 
Unmindful of the shouts on high, 
That hailed the conqueror's victory. 

He raised the dying man ; 
Loose waved his silver beard and hair, 
As o'er him he kneeled down in prayer ; 
And still the crucifix on high 
He holds before his darkening eye ; 
And still he bends an anxious ear, 
His faultering penitence to hear; 

Still props him from the bloody sod, 
Still, even when soul and body part, 
Pours ghostly comfort on his heart, 

And bids him trust in God ! 
Unheard he prays ; — the death-pang's o'er !- 
Richard of Musgrave breathes no more. 

As if exhausted in the. fight, 
Or musing o'er the piteous sight, 

The silent victor stands ; 
His beaver did he not unclasp, 
Marked not the shouts, felt not the grasp 

Of gratulating hands. 
When lo ! strange cries of wild surprise, 
Mingled with seeming terror, rise 

Among the Scottish bands ; 
And all, amid the thronged array, 
In panic haste gave open way 
To a half-naked, ghastly man, 
"Who downward from the castle ran: . 
He crossed the barriers at a bound, 



DESCRIPTIVE P.OETRY. 357 

And wild and haggard looked around, 
As dizzy and in pain ; 

And all, upon the armed ground, 
Knew William of Deloraine ! 
Eachladye sprung from seat with speed ; 
Vaulted each marshal from his steed ; 

" And who art thou," they cried, 
"Who hast this battle fought and won?" 
His plumed helm was soon undone — 

'* Cranstoun of Teviot-side ! 
For this fair prize I've fought and won," — 
And to the ladye led her son. 

Full oft the rescued boy she kissed, 
And often pressed him to her breast : 
For, under all her dauntless show, 
Her heart had throbbed at every blow ; 
Yet not Lord Cranstoun deigned to greet, 
Though low he kneeled at her feet. 
Me list not tell what words were made, 
What Douglas, Home, and Howard said — 

For Howard was a generous foe — 
And how the clan united prayed, 

The ladye would the feud forego, 
And deign to bless the nuptial hour 
Of Cranstoun's lord and Teviot's flower. 



THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.— Willis. 

Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve 
Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl 
Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain 
Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance, 
Her thin pale fingers clasped within the hand 
Of the heartbroken Ruler, and her breast, 
Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 
The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, 
And as it stirred with the awakening wind, 
The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, 
And her slight fingers moved, and heavily 
She turned upon her pillow. He was there — 



358 young lady's reader. 

The same loved, tireless watcher, and she looked 

Into his face until her sight grew dim 

With the fast-falling tears, and, with a sigh 

Of tremulous weakness, murmuring his name, 

She gently drew his hand upon her lips, 

And kissed it as she wept. The old man sunk 

Upon his knees, and in the drapery 

Of the rich curtains buried up his face™ 

And when the twilight fell, the silken folds 

Stirred with his prayer, but the slight hand he held 

Had ceased its pressure, and he could not hear 

In the dead, utter silence, that a breath 

Came through her nostrils, and her temples gave 

To his nice touch no pulse, and at her mouth 

He held the lightest curl that on her neck 

Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze 

Ached with its deathly stillness. 

* * * * It was night— 

And softly o'er the sea of Galilee • 
Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore, 
Tipped with the silver sparkles of the moon. 
The breaking waves played low upon the beach 
Their constant music, but the air beside 
Was still as starlight, and the Savior's voice, 
In its rich cadences unearthly sweet, 
Seemed like some just-born harmony in the air, 
Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock, 
With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, 
He stood and taught the people. At his feet 
Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell, 
And staff, for they had waited by the sea 
Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and prayed 
For his wont teachings as he came to land. 
His hair was parted meekly on his brow, 
And the long curls from off his shoulders fell 
As he leaned forward earnestly, and still 
The same calm cadence, passionless and deep, 
And in his looks the same mild majesty, 
And in his mien the sadness mixed with power, 
Filled them with love and wonder. Suddenly, 
As on his words entrancedly they hung, 
The crowd divided, and among them stood 



DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 359 

Jairus the Ruler. With his flowing robe 
Gathered in haste about his loins, he came, 
And fixed his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew 
The twelve disciples to their master's side, 
And silently the people shrunk away, 
And left the haughty Ruler in the midst 
Alone. A moment longer on the face 
Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze, 
And as the twelve looked on him, by the light 
Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear 
Steal to his silver beard, and drawing nigh 
Unto the Savior's feet, he took the hem 
Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands 
Pressed it upon his lips, and murmured low, 
" Master ! my daughter .'" — 



JERUSALEM.— Hillhouse. 

'T is so ; — the hoary harper sings aright ; 

How beautiful is Zion ! — Like a queen, 

Armed with a helm in virgin loveliness, 

Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass, 

She sits aloft, begirt with battlements 

And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard 

The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces, 

Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods 

Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses, 

Wave their dark beauty round the tower of David. 

Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers, 

The embrazures of alabaster shine ; 

Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound 

To Judah's mart with orient merchandise. 

But not, for thou art fair and turret-crowned. 

Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and blessed 

With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense, 

Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here, 

Where saints and prophets teach, where the stern law 

Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch, 

And where the glory hovers, here I war. 



360 young lady's reader. 



GENEVIEVE.— Coleridge. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, ■ 
All are but ministers of love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leant against the armed man, 

The statue of the armed knight; 

She stood and listened to my lay, 

Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 
She loves me best, whene'er 1 sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
1 sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face 

I told her of the knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The lady of the land. 

I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 



DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 361 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a fiend, 
This miserable knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did, 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The lady of the land ! 

And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain. 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay. 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guiltless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve; 
31 



362 young lady's reader. 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long ! 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love, and virgin shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stept aside, 
As conscious of my look she stepped — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 't was a bashful art, 
That I might rather feel, than see, 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous bride. 



THE DEATH-BED.— Anon. 

We watched her breathing through the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak — 

So slowly moved about — 
As we had lent her half our life, 

To eke her living out. 



EPIC POETRY. 363 



Our very hopes belied our fears, 
Our fears, our hopes belied — ■ 

We thought her dying when she slept, 
And sleeping when she died 

And when the morn rose dim and sad, 
And chill with early showers, 

Her quiet eye-lids closed — she had 
Another morn than ours. 



EPIC POETRY. 



ADDRESS TO THE HOLY SPIRIT.— Milton. 

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
Brought death into the world, and all our woe, 
With loss of Eden, till one greater man 
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, 
Sing, heavenly muse, that on the secret top 
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire 
That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed, 
In the beginning, how the heavens and earth 
Rose out of chaos : Or, if Sion hill 
Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flowed 
Fast by the oracle of God ; I thence 
Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, 
That with no middle flight intends to soar 
Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues 
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. 
And chiefly thou, 0, Spirit, that dost prefer 
Before all temples the upright heart and pure, 
Instruct me, for thou know'st ; thou from the first 
Was present, and, with mighty wings out-spread, 
Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss, 
And mad'st it pregnant : what in me is dark, 
Illumine ; what is low, raise and support ; 
That to the height of this great argument 
I may assert eternal Providence, 
And justify the ways of God to men. 



364 young lady's reader. 

Say first, for heaven hides nothing from thy view, 
Nor the deep tract of hell ; say first, what cause 
Moved our grand parents, in that happy state, 
Favored of heaven so highly, to fall off 
From their Creator, and transgress his will 
For one restraint, lords of the world besides ? 
Who first seduced them to that foul revolt ? 
The infernal serpent ; he it was, whose guile, 
Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived 
The mother of mankind, what time his pride 
Had cast him out of heaven, with all his host 
Of rebel angels ; by whose aid, aspiring 
To set himself in glory above his peers, 
He trusted to have equalled the Most High, 
If he opposed ; and, with ambitious aim 
Against the throne and monarchy of God, 
Raised impious war in heaven, and battle proud, 
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty power 
Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, 
With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
To bottomless perdition ; there to dwell 
In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 
Nine times the space that measures day and night 
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf, 
Confounded, though immortal : but his doom 
Reserved him to more wrath ! for now the thought 
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 
Torments him : round he throws his baleful eyes, 
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay, 
Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate ; 
At once, as far as angels ken, he views 
The dismal situation, waste and wild ; 
A dungeon horrible on all sides round, 
As one great furnace flamed ; yet from those flames 
No light ; but rather darkness visible, 
Served only to discover sights of woe, 
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 
And rest can never dwell ; hope never comes 
That comes to all : but torture without end 
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed : 



EPIC POETRY. 3&5 

Such place eternal justice had prepared 
For those rebellious ; here their prison ordained 
In utter darkness, and their portion set 
As far removed from God and light of heaven, 
As from the center thrice to the utmost pole. 
O, how unlike the place from whence they fell ! 
There the companions of his fall, o'er whelmed 
With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, 
He soon discerns ; and weltering by his side 
One next himself in power, and next in crime, 
Long after known in Palestine, and named 
Beelzebub. 



ADDRESS TO THE MUSE.— Homer. 

Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring 
Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing! 
The wrath which hurled to Pluto's gloomy reign 
The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain ; 
Whose limbs unburied on the naked shore, 
Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore ; 
Since great Achilles and Atrides strove. 
Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove ! 

Declare, muse ! in what ill-fated hour 
Sprung the fierce strife from what offended power? 
Latona's son a dire contagion spread, 
And heaped the camp with mountains of the dead ; 
The king of men his reverend priest defied, 
And for the king's offense the people died. 

For Chrysis sought with costly gifts to gain 
His captive daughter from the victor's chain. 
Suppliant the venerable father stands, 
Apollo's awful ensigns grace his hands ; 
By these he begs ; and lowly bending down, 
Extends the scepter and the laurel crown. 
He sued to all, but chief implored for grace 
The brother-kings of Atreus' royal race. 

Ye kings and warriors ! may your vows be crowned, 
And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground. 
May Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er, 
Safe to the pleasures of your native shore ; 
31* 



366 young lady's reader. 

But oh ! relieve a wretched parent's pain, 
And give Chryseis to these arms again ; 
If mercy fail, yet let my presents move, 
And dread avenging Phosbus, son of Jove. 

The Greeks in shouts their joint assent declare, 
The priest to reverence, and release the fair. 
Not so Atrides : he with kingly pride, 
Repulsed the sacred sire, and thus replied : 

Hence, on thy life, and fly these hostile plains, 
Nor ask, presumptuous, what the king detains ; 
Hence, with thy laurel crown and golden rod, 
Nor trust too far those ensigns of thy god. 
Mine is thy daughter, priest, and shall remain ; 
And prayers, and tears, and bribes, shall plead in vain, 
Till time shall rifle every youthful grace, 
And age dismiss her from my cold embrace, 
In daily labors of the loom employed, 
Or doomed to deck the bed she once enjoyed. 
Hence then, to Argos shall the maid retire, 
Far from her native soil and weeping sire. 

The trembling priest along the shore returned, 
And in the anguish of a father, mourned. 
Disconsolate, not daring to complain, 
Silent he wandered by the sounding main : 
Till, safe at distance, to his god he prays, 
The god who darts around the world his rays. 

Smintheus ! sprung from fair Latona's line, 
Thou guardian power of Cilia the divine, 
Thou source of light ! whom Tenedos adores, 
And whose bright presence gilds thy Chrysa's shores : 
If e'er with wreaths I hung thy sacred fane, 
Or fed the flames with fat of oxen slain ; 
God of the silver bow ! thy shafts employ, 
Avenge thy servant, and the Greeks destroy. 

Thus Chrysis prayed : the favoring power attends, 
And from Olympus' lofty top descends. 
Bent was his bow, the Grecian hearts to wound, 
Fierce as he moved, his silver shafts resound. 
Breathing revenge, a sudden night he spread, 
And gloomy darkness rolled around his head. 
The fleet in view, he twanged his deadly bow, 
And hissing fly the feathered fates below. 
On mules and dogs the infection first began ; 



WIT AND HUMOR. 367 

And last, the vengeful arrows fixed on man. 
For nine long nights through all the dusky air, 
The pyres, thick-flaming, shot a dismal glare. 
But ere the tenth revolving day was run, 
Inspired by Juno, Thetis' godlike son 
Convened to council all the Grecian train ; 
For much the goddess mourned her heroes slain. 



WIT AND HUMOR. 



THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN.— Holmes. 

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side, 
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide ; 
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim, 
Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him. 

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid, 
Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade ; 
He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say, 
" I'm wide awake young oysterman, and all the folks away." 

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, 

" I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should 

see; 
I read it a story-book, that for to kiss his dear, 
Leander swam the Hellespont, — and I will swim this here." 

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining 

stream, 
And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam ; 
O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain, — 
But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again ! 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — " O what was that, my 

daughter ?'" 
" 'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water ;" 
" And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast ?" 
" It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a swimming past." 



368 young lady's READER. 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — " Now bring me my har- 
poon ! 
I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon ;" 
Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls the snow-white lamb, 
Her hair dropped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a 
clam. 

Alas for these two loving ones ! she waked not from her swound, 
And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was 

drowned ; 
But fate has metamorphosed them in pity of their woe, 
And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below. 



CONNECTICUT.— Halleck. 

And still her gray rocks tower above the sea 
That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave ; 

'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, 
Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave ; 

Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands, are bold and free, 
And friends will find a welcome — foes a grave ; 

And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray, 

Nor even then, unless in their own way. 

Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, 

A " fierce democracie," where all are true 
To what themselves have voted — right or wrong — 

And to their laws, denominated blue ; 
(If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) 

A vestal state, which power could not subdue, 
Nor promise win — like her own eagle's nest, 
Sacred — the San Marino of the west. 

A justice of the peace, for the time being, 

They bow too, but may turn him out next year ; 

They reverence their priest, but disagreeing 
In price or creed, dismiss him without fear ; 

They have a natural talent for foreseeing 

And knowing all things ; — and should Park appear 

From his long tour in Africa, to show 

The Niger's source, they 'd meet him with — we know. 



WIT AND HUMOR. 369 

They love their land, because it is their own, 

And scorn to give ought other reason why ; 
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, 

And think it kindness to his majesty ; 
A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. 

Such are they nurtured, such they live and die : 
All — but a few apostates, who are meddling 
With merchandize, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling ; 

Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching 
The A. B. C. from Webster's spelling-book ; 

Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, 

And gaining, by what they call " hook and crook," 

And what the moralists call overreaching, 
A decent living. The Virginians look 

Upon them with as favorable eyes 

As Gabriel on the devil in paradise. 

But these are but their outcasts. View them near 
At home, where all their worth and pride are placed ; 

And there their hospitable fires burn clear, 
And there the lowliest farm-house is graced 

With manly hearts, in piety sincere, 

Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste, 

In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, 

Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. 

And minds have there been nurtured, whose control 

Is felt even in their nation's destiny ; 
Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, 

And looked on armies with a leader's eye ; 
Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, 

Whose leaves contain their country's history, 
And tales of love and war — listen to one, 
Of the Green Mountaineer — the Stark of Bennington. 

When on the field his band the Hessians fought, 

Briefly he spoke before the fight began — 
" Soldiers ! those German gentleman are bought 

For four pound eight and seven pence per man, 
By England's king — a bargain, as is thought. 

Are we worth more ? Let's prove it now we can — 
For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun, 
Or Mary Stark's a widow." — It was done. 



370 young lady's reader. 

Her's are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, 

Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales, 
The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling 

Such wild enchantment o'er Boccacio's tales 
Of Florence and the Arno — yet the wing 

Of life's best angel, health, is on her gales 
Through sun and snow — and in the autumn time 
Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 

Her clear, warm heaven at noon — the mist that shrouds 
Her twilight hills, — her cool and starry eves, 

The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds, 
The rain-bow beauty of her forest leaves, 

Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, 
Where'er his web of song a poet weaves ; 

And his mind's brightest vision but displays 

The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 

And when you dream of woman, and her love ; 

Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power ; 
The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove ; 

The mother smiling in her infant's bower; 
Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move — 

Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour 
Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air 
To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them there. 



ON STYLE.— Paulding. 

Style, a manner of writing ; title ; pin of a dial ; the pistil of plants. 

Johnson, 
Style, is style. — Link. Fid. 

Now I would not give a straw for either of the above defini- 
tions, though I think the latter is by far the most satisfactory ; 
and I do wish sincerely every modern numscull who takes hold 
of a subject he knows nothing about, would adopt honest Lin- 
kum's mode of explanation. Blair's Lectures on this article, 
have not thrown a whit more light on the subject of my inqui- 
ries ; they puzzled me just as much as did the learned and labo- 
rious expositions and illustrations of the worthy professor of 
our college, in the middle of which I generally had the ill-luck 
to fall asleep. 



WIT AND HUMOR. 371 

This same word style, though but a diminutive word, as- 
sumes to itself more contradictions, and significations, and ec- 
centricities, than an}' monosyllable in the language is legiti- 
mately entitled to. It is an arrant little humorist of a word, 
and full of whim-whams, which occasions me to like it hugely ; 
but it puzzled me most wickedly on my first return from a long 
residence abroad, having crept into fashionable use during my 
absence ; and had it not been for friend Evergreen, and that 
thrifty sprig of knowledge, Jeremy Cockloft the younger, I 
should have remained to this day ignorant of its meaning. 

Though it would seem that the people of all countries are 
equally vehement in the pursuit of this phantom, style, yet in 
almost all of them there is a strange diversity in opinion as to 
what constitutes its essence ; and every different class, like the 
pagan nations, adore it under a different form. In England, for 
instance, an honest cit packs up himself, his family, and his 
style, in a buggy or tim whisky, and rattles away on Sunday 
with his fair partner blooming beside him, like an eastern bride, 
and two chubby children squatting like Chinese images at his 
feet. A baronet requires a chariot and pair: an earl must 
needs have a barouche-and-four : but a duke — oh ! a duke can- 
not possibly lumber his style along under a coach-and-six, and 
half a score of footmen into the bargain. In China, a puis- 
sant mandarin loads at least three elephants with style ; and an 
overgrown sheep at the Cape of Good Hope trails along his tail 
and his style on a wheelbarrow. In Egypt, or at Constantino- 
ple, style consists in the quantity of fur and fine clothes a lady 
can put on without danger of suffocation : here it is otherwise, 
and consists in the quantity she can put off without the risk of 
freezing A Chinese lady is thought prodigal of her charms, if 
she exposes the tip of her nose, or the ends of her ringers, to the 
ardent gaze of bystanders ; and I recollect that all Canton was 
in a buzz in consequence of the great belle, Miss Nangfous, 
peeping out of the window with her face uncovered ! Here the 
style is to show not only the face, but the neck, shoulders, etc. ; 
and a lady never presumes to hide them except when she is 
not at home, and not sufficiently undressed to see company. 

This style has ruined the peace and harmony of many a 
worthy household ; for no sooner do they set up for style, but 
instantly all the honest old comfortable sans cirimonie furniture 
is discarded ; and you stalk cautiously about among the un- 
comfortable splendor of Grecian chairs, Egyptian tables, Tur- 
key carpets, and Etruscan vases. This vast improvement in 



372 young lady's header. 

furniture demands an increase in the domestic establishment ; 
and a family that once required two or three servants for conve- 
nience, now employ half a dozen for style. 

Bell Brazen, late favorite of my unfortunate friend Dessa- 
lines, was one of these patterns of style ; and whatever freak 
she was seized with, however preposterous, was implicitly fol- 
lowed by all who would be considered as admitted in the stylish 
arcana. She was once seized with a whim-wham that tickled 
the whole court. She could not lie down to take an afternoon's 
loll but she must have one servant to scratch her head, two to 
tickle her feet, and a fourth to fan her delectable person while 
she slumbered. The thing took ; it became the rage, and not 
a sable belle in all Hayti but what insisted upon being fanned, 
and scratched, and tickled in the true imperial style. Sneer 
not at this picture, my most excellent townsmen ; for who 
among you but are daily following fashions equally absurd ? 

Style, according to Evergreen's account, consists in certain 
fashions, or certain eccentricities, or certain manners of cer- 
tain people, in certain situations, and possessed of a certain 
share of fashion or importance. A red cloak, for instance, on 
the shoulders of an old market-woman, is regarded with con- 
tempt ; it is vulgar — it is odious: fling, however, its usurping 
rival, a red shawl, over the figure of a fashionable belle, and 
let her flame away with it in Broadway, or in a ball-room, and 
it is immediately declared to be the style. 

The modes of attaining this certain situation, which entitles 
its holder to style, are various and opposite : the most ostensi- 
ble is the attainment of wealth ; the possession of which 
changes at once the pert airs of vulgar ignorance into fashiona- 
ble ease and elegant vivacity. It is highly amusing to observe 
the gradation of a family aspiring to style, and the devious 
windings they pursue in order to attain it. While beating up 
against wind and tide, they are the most complaisant beings in 
the world ; they keep " booing and booing," as M'Sycophant 
says, until you would suppose them incapable of standing up- 
right ; they kiss their hands to every body who has the least 
claim to style ; their familiarity is intolerable, and they abso- 
lutely overwhelm you with their friendship and loving-kindness. 
But having once gained the envied pre-eminence, never were 
beings in the world more changed. They assume the most 
intolerable caprices ; at one time address you with importunate 
sociability ; at another pass you by with silent indifference ; 
sometimes sit up in their chairs in all the majesty of dignified 



WIT AND HUMOR. 373 

silence ; and at another time bounce about with all the obstrep- 
erous ill-bred noise of a little hoyden just broke loose from a 
boarding-school. 

Another feature which distinguishes these new-made fash- 
ionables, is the inveteracy with which they look down upon the 
honest people who are struggling to climb up to the same envied 
height. They never fail to salute them with the most sarcas- 
tic reflections ; and like so many worthy hodmen clambering a 
ladder, each one looks down upon his next neighbor below, and 
makes no scruple of shaking the dust off his shoes into his 
eyes. Thus, by dint of perseverance merely, they come to be 
considered as established denizens of the great world ; as in 
some barbarous nations an oyster-shell is of sterling value, and 
a copper washed counter will pass current for genuine gold. 

In no instance have I seen this grasping after style more 
whimsically exhibited than in the family of my old acquaint- 
ance Timothy Giblet. I recollect old Giblet when I was a 
boy, and he was the most surly curmudgeon I ever knew. He 
was a perfect scarecrow to the small-fry of the day, and inher- 
ited the hatred of all these unlucky little urchins ; for never 
could we assemble about his door of an evening to play, and 
make a little hubbub, but out he sallied from his nest like a 
spider, flourished his formidable horsewhip, and dispersed the 
whole crew in the twinkling of a lamp. I perfectly remember 
a bill he sent in to my father for a pane of glass I had accident- 
ally broken, which came well-nigh getting me a sound flog- 
ging ; and I remember as perfectly, that the next night I reven- 
ged myself by breaking half a dozen. Giblet was as arrant a 
grubworm as ever crawled ; and the only rules of right and 
wrong he cared a button for, were the rules of multiplication 
and addition, which he practised much more successfully than 
he did any of the rules of religion or morality. He used to 
declare they were the true golden rules ; and he took special 
care to put Cocker's Arithmetic in the hands of his children, 
before they had read ten pages in the bible or the prayer-book. 
The practice of these favorite maxims was at length crowned 
with the harvest of success ; and after enduring all the pounds, 
shillings, and pence miseries of a miser, he had the satisfac- 
tion of seeing himself worth a plum, and of dying just as he 
had determined to enjoy the remainder of his days in contem- 
plating his great wealth and accumulating mortgages. 

His children inherited his money ; but they buried the dispo- 
sition, and every other memorial of their father, in his grave. 

32 



374 young lady's reader. 

Fired with a noble thirst for style, they instantly emerged from 
the retired lane in which themselves and their accomplish- 
ments had hitherto been buried ; and they blazed, and they 
whizzed, and they cracked about town like a nest of squibs 
and devils in a firework. Their sudden eclat may be likened 
to that of the locust, which is hatched in the dust, where it in- 
creases and swells up to maturity, and after feeling for a mo- 
ment the vivifying rays of the sun, bursts forth a mighty in- 
sect, and flutters, and rattles, and buzzes from every tree. The 
little warblers, who have long cheered the woodlands with their 
dulcet notes, are stunned by the discordant racket of this up- 
start intruder, and contemplate, in contemptuous silence, its 
bustle and its noise. 

Having once started, the Giblets were determined that 
nothing should stop them in their career, until they had run 
their full course, and arrived at the very tip-top of style. 
Every tailor, every shoe-maker, every coach-maker, every mil- 
liner, every mantua-maker, every paper-hanger, every piano- 
teacher, and every dancing-master in the city, were enlisted in 
their services ; and the willing wights most courteously an- 
swered their call, and fell to the work of building up the fame of 
the Giblets, as they had done that of many an aspiring family 
before them. In a little time the young ladies could dance the 
wallz, thunder Lodoiska, murder French, kill time, and commit 
violence on the face of nature in a landscape in water-colors, 
equal to the best lady in the land ; and the young gentlemen 
were seen lounging at corners of streets, and driving tandem ; 
heard talking loud at the theater, and laughing in church, with 
as much ease, and grace, and modesty, as if they had been 
gentlemen all the days of their lives. 

And the Giblets arrayed themselves in scarlet, and in fine 
linen, and seated themselves in high places ; but no body no- 
ticed ihem, except to honor them with a. little contempt. The 
Giblets made a prodigious splash in their own opinion ; but 
no body extolled them, except the tailors and the milliners who 
had been employed in manufacturing their paraphernalia. The 
Giblets thereupon being, like Caleb Quotem, determined to 
have " a place at the review," fell to work more fiercely than 
ever ; they gave dinners, and they gave balls ; they hired con- 
fectioners, and they would have kept a newspaper in pay, had 
they not been all bought up at that time for the election. They 
invited the dancing men, and the dancing women, and the gor- 
mandizers, and the epicures of the city, to come and make 



WIT AND HUMOR. 375 

merry at their expense ; and the dancing men, and the dancing 
women, and the epicures, and the gormandizers did come ; and 
they did make merry at their expense ; and they ate, and they 
drank, and they capered, and they danced, and they — laughed 
at their entertainers. 

Then commenced the hurry, and the bustle, and the mighty 
nothingness of fashionable life ; such rattling in coaches ! such 
flaunting in the streets ! such slamming of box-doors at the 
theater ! such a tempest of bustle and unmeaning noise 
wherever they appeared ! The Giblets were seen here and 
there and every where ; they visited every body they knew, 
and every body they did not know ; and there was no getting 
along for the Giblets. Their plan at length succeeded. By 
dint of dinners, of feeding and frolicking the town, the Giblet 
family worked themselves into notice, and enjoyed the ineffable 
pleasure of being for ever pestered by visiters, who cared 
nothing about them ; of being squeezed, and smothered, and 
parboiled at nightly balls, and evening tea-parties ; they were 
allowed the privilege of forgetting the very few old friends they 
once possessed ; they turned up their noses at every thing that 
was not genteel ; and their superb manners and sublime affecta- 
tion at length left it no longer a matter of doubt that the Giblets 
were perfectly in the style. 



THE CAPTAIN.— A FRAGMENT.— Brainard. 

[The Bridgeport paper of March, 1823, said: "Arrived, schooner 
Fame, from Charleston, via New London. While at anchor in that har- 
bor, during the rain storm on Thursday evening last, the Fame was run 
foul of by the wreck of the Methodist Meeting House, from Norwich, 
which was carried away in the late freshet."] 

Solemn he paced upon that schooner's deck, 
And muttered of his hardships : — " I have been 
Where the wild will of Mississippi's tide 
Has dashed me on the sawyer ; — I have sailed 
In the thick night, along the wave-washed edge 
Of ice, in acres, by the pitiless coast 
Of Labrador ; and I have scraped my keel 
O'er coral rocks in Madagascar seas — 
And often in my cold and midnight watch, 
Have heard the warning voice of the lee shore 



376 young lady's reader. 

Speaking in breakers ! Ay, and I have seen 

The whale and sword-fish fight beneath my bows : 

And when they made the deep boil like a pot, 

Have swung into its vortex ; and I know 

To cord my vessel with a sailor's skill, 

And brave such dangers with a sailor's heart; 

— But never yet upon the stormy wave, 

Or where the river mixes with the main, 

Or in the chafing anchorage of the bay, 

In all my rough experience of harm, 

Met I — a Methodist meeting-house! 



Cat-head, or beam, or davit has it none, 

Starboard nor larboard, gunwale, stem nor stern! 

It comes in such a " questionable shape," 

I cannot even speak it! Up jib, Josey, 

And make for Bridgeport! There where Stratford Point, 

Long Beach, Fairweather Island, and the buoy, 

Are safe from such encounters, we'll protest ! 

And Yankee legends long shall tell the tale, 

That once a Charleston schooner was beset, 

Riding at anchor, by a meeting house. 



SMALL TALK.— T. H. Bailey: 

Small talk is indispensable at routs, 

But more so at a little coterie, 
Where friends, in number eight — or thereabout — 

Meet to enjoy loquacity and tea. 
If small talk were abolished, I've my doubts 

If ladies would survive to fifty-three ; 
Nor shall the stigma, ladies, fall on you, 
Men love a little bit of small talk too. 

What changes there would be, if no tongues ran 
Except in sober sense and conversation ; 

There's many a communicative man 
Would take to silence and to cogitation. 

'T would stop old maids (if aught that's earthly can,) 
And cut the thread of many an oration : 



WIT AND HUMOR. 377 

Old bachelors would daudle through the day, 
And go on in a very humdrum way. 

What would become of those who, when at prayers, 
Lean down their heads, and whisper in their pews ? 

Those at the play who give themselves such airs, 
Careful each celebrated speech to lose 1 ? 

How would the poor man suffer, who prepares 
For small snug parties which he can't refuse 1 

What would become of all the gay pursuits, 

If all gay people suddenly turned mutes ? 

Partners at balls would look extremely blue, 
While waiting for their turn to point the toe ; 

Youths tete-a-tete would scarce know what to do, 
Over their juice of grape, or juice of sloe : 

Two people in a chaise might travel through 
England and Wales — and they in fact might go 

Over the continent, and all the way 

Be confidential once or twice a day. 

Lovers would think it very hard, I fear, 

If sober sense they were condemned to speak ; 

Husbands and wives a voice would seldom hear, 
Unless it happened to be washing week ; 

The language of the eyes, I think, 't is clear, 
Old married people very seldom seek : 

(Couples oft disagree, I'm told,) — but this 

Is just by way of a parenthesis. 

How very peaceable we should be then ; 

None would have words, — even bullies would be dumb ; 
How changed would be the busy hum of men ; 

The fame of certain wits would prove a hum ; 
Tatlers, deprived of speech, would sieze a pen, 

They are a nuisance not to be o'ercome ; 
Schemers the credulous no more would balk, 
For schemes would very rarely end in talk. 

These changes are not all ; — I'll not proceed, 
I've mentioned quite enough in my narration ; 

They'd be so universal, that indeed 
They'd baffle any man's investigation. 
32* 



378 young lady's reader. 

To calculate them all — I must exceed 

George Bidder, who is famed for calculation : 
Arithmetic to him's a pleasant game — 
" He lisped in numbers, for the numbers came !" 



THE FRETFUL MAN.— Cowper. 

Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, 
You always do too little, or too much : 
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain, 
Your elevated voice goes through his brain ; 
You fall at once into a lower key, 
That's worse — the drone-pipe of a humble-bee. 
The southern sash admits too strong a light, 
You rise and drop the curtain — now 'tis night. 
He shakes with cold — 3'ou stir the fire and strive 
To make a blaze — that's roasting him alive. 
Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish ; 
With sole — that's just the sort he would not wish. 
He takes what he at first professed to loath, 
And in due time feeds heartily on both ; 
Yet still, o'erclouded with a constant frown, 
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
Your hope to please him vain on every plan, 
Himself should work that wonder, if he can — 
Alas ! his efforts double his distress, 
He likes yours little, and his own still less. 
Thus always teasing others, always teased, 
His only pleasure is — to be displeased. 



MODERN INNOVATIONS.— Wirt. 

A Utter from Obadiah Squaretoes to " the Old Baclielor," 

Mr. Bachelor, — 

It is the privilege of those who are injured, to complain; — 
Sir, you have stung me to the quick, — you have touched me 
where I was most vulnerable ; and shall I not complain ? Yes ! 
and the world shall hear me too — but I am borne from my pur- 
pose by this heat : let me, with temper, tell my story. 



WIT AND HUMOR. 379 

I am a plain man, a farmer, and what the world calls an old- 
fashioned fellow ; I have a wife, and six daughters, and two 
sons — all these children I had ihought to have brought up with 
some credit — that my girls at least should have made good 
house-wives for the farmers of the neighborhood. 

I chose for my own partner the blooming daughter of a 
neighboring farmer — not one of your delicate, nervous, tea- 
sipping ladies of the present day ; but a robust and active 
damsel, who could rise with the dawn, milk her father's cows, 
attend to the hen-house and dairy, and at breakfast could dis- 
pose of as much beef-steak as any lady in the days of good 
queen Bess ; no vagaries about the rights of woman, or the 
equality of the sexes, ever disturbed her quiet brain — on the 
contrary, both precept and example had taught her that impor- 
tant lesson, to love, honor, and obey her lord and master.- — 
Now in the family statute-book there was no law so fondly 
cherished, none considered of such vital importance as this : 
" That a deep and humbling sense of their inferiority to, and 
entire dependence on the males, should be, with unceasing 
care, inculcated on the females." This idea was to be pre- 
sented to them in a thousand shapes ; to grow with their 
growth, and strengthen with their strength ; and as a means to 
this end, the extent and limits of their education were exactly 
defined — it consisted in reading, writing, and arithmetic to the 
rule of three — the Bible, the Whole duty of Man, and the Art 
of Cookery, by Mrs. Hannah Glass, made up their library — all 
beyond was forbidden ground. Of the fruit of the tree of 
knowledge, they might in no wise eat; this was prohibited 
under the severest pains and penalties. Deeply impressed 
with the importance of this law, it was the fixed determination 
of myself and wife, to educate our daughters in strict con- 
formity to it — and though I say it that should not, with our 
three eldest we succeeded completely — aye, shew me, who 
can, three more notable and house-wifely women than Bridget, 
Winnifred, and Dinah — girls that can turn their hand to any 
thing — milk a cow, iron a shirt, mend a stocking, or make a 
pudding. And I defy any one to catch them idling over a book, 
except on Sundays, and then strictly within the pale of the 
law ; none of your novels or histories, but one of the books 
above mentioned. To me it is wonderful, that women so cal- 
culated to make reasonable men happy, should remain still on 
hand. Of my three younger daughters, would that I could say 
as much — they have blasted all my hopes, broken the statutes 
of the family, and thrown my household into confusion. 



380 young lady's reader. 

About eighteen months past, a sister of my wife's came to 
visit us — she was a true town-lady, with all the airs, and gra- 
ces, and high-flown notions, and delicate sensibilities of the 
tribe — a reading lady too! but this fact I did not know till 
some time afterwards. Towards the conclusion of her visit, I 
began to suspect that something was in the wind. I saw fre- 
quent consultations going on among the women ; they would 
get into a knot in a corner, and whisper most earnestly, every 
now and then casting towards me a look of apprehension — my 
daughter Grace, too, my fourth girl, was uncommonly assidu- 
ous to me — if I called at any time for my favorite beverage, 
butter-milk, it was sure to be handed by Grace — as soon as I 
entered the house at my smoking hours, Grace flew to get my 
pipe and tobacco. 

At length the batteries were opened in form, and the attack 
commenced ; as we sat round the dinner-table, my wife's sister 
observed that she had a great favor to ask of me — her neice 
Grace, she said, was her namesake, that she was a great favor- 
ite with her, that the girl had been brought up in the country, 
that she was now grown quite a woman, and begged that I 
would permit her to take her to the city, and show her some- 
thing of life. I replied, that the request was one that I could 
by no means grant ; why should she be parading off to the city 
to catch the infection of its manners, or to be ridiculed and 
laughed at as an awkward country hoyden ? Grace said not a 
word, but I could see, by the flush of her cheek, and the toss 
of her head, that she scorned my words ; my three eldest girls 
broke forth at once in high dudgeon—" She go to the city, truly ! 
a high thing, marry come up ! fish of one, and flesh of another ! 
they had been women grown many a long day, and no city for 
them — in doors and out of doors, late and early, hot and cold, 
they were to work, while madam Grace, forsooth, was to be 
made a lady of!" I quieted my girls, and told them the thing 
should not be. 

Now all this time my wife Deborah had not uttered a word, 
and still I thought she looked as if she wished Grace success. 
To be further assured of her wishes on this subject, I waited 
till we were alone, and then as our manner is, when an impor- 
tant subject is on the carpet, I opened the discussion: — " Deb- 
orah, my dear, you have not given your opinion on this subject ; 
I hope you do not wish to expose our child to this dangerous 
and useless trip !" She replied, " Husband, I would not differ 
with you before company, because I know my place — but why 



WIT AND HUMOR. 381 

should'nt we indulge the girl ? She has been brought up ac- 
cording to the statues, (statutes, wife!) and there is no danger 
now — beside, why should not she have a chance to look about 
her, and make her fortune ? Look at neighbor Gubbins' darter 
and all ; she went a trip to the city, and she is now married to a 
rich man, and keeps her carriage ; to be sure comparisons are 
odorous, (odious, you mean, Deborah,) ah, I am no dictionary 
woman — but I mean that Sail Gubbins is not to compare to 
our Grace in beauly." The discussion was lengthy, but finally 
I suffered myself to be persuaded, though unconvinced, and 
consented to the trip. 

She was gone six months ; and when she returned I scarce- 
ly knew my child — instead of the plump, rosy-cheeked country 
girl, with health, and life, and activity in every muscle, I saw a 
thin, emaciated, delicate figure, with a cheek of snow, and lan- 
guid step, moving slowly towards us — all the warm habiliments 
of the country thrown aside — even the snug pocket ; and in 
their place a thin muslin dress, and a thing which I think they 
very properly call, a ridicule. A gush of parental affection 
filled my eyes, and taking her in my arms, I inquired why she 
had not informed us of her illness, and why she traveled in 
such a dress as must bring her life into imminent hazard. Smi- 
ling at my apprehensions, she replied that she had not been ill, 
that to be sure she was rather in delicate health, which pro- 
ceeded from the extreme sensibility of her nervous system ! 
but that she had gotten some composing drops from Dr. Bolus, 
a celebrated physician, which she found of great use. All this 
was rue and worm-wood to me — but the worst was yet. to come. 
I found my lady's mind more metamorphosed than her body. 
She had been reading novels, plays, and histories ! I now 
found there was no time to be lost. I strictly prohibited the 
bringing any book into my family ; positively forbid Grace to 
hold conversations on what she had read, and commanded her 
regularly to take her turn week-about with her sisters in mana- 
ging the household affairs, a thing which, under various pre- 
texts, she had since her return neglected. These were irk- 
some duties to her now — but she was forced to submit, and 
things seemed to be getting right again, when you, Mr. Bache- 
lor, stepped in and ruined all my hopes. One morning, after I 
had been kept waiting for my breakfast some time, I determin- 
ed to go myself and see what the girls were about. I stepped 
softly into their room, the door was open, and I found Grace 
reading aloud from a newspaper, with an agitated voice and im- 



382 young lady's reader. 

passioned manner, while my two youngest daughters were sit- 
ting round her, devouring her words, and the tears trickling 
down their cheeks — so deeply engaged were they, that my ap- 
proach was entirely unperceived. I determined to keep my 
station in silence, till I discovered the extent of the mischief. 
It was your fifth number, Mr. Bachelor, and the matter which 
was beguiling these simple damsels of their tears, was your 
foolish story of a Roman woman, Agippina, I think you call 
her. I burst in upon the girls, snatched the paper from them, 
and in a voice of authority, summoned them to the hall. They 
all appeared and took their seats in silence. I proceeded with 
great form, produced the statute-book, read the law, charged 
Grace with her offense, inveighed bitterly against its enormity, 
and called upon her to know what she could say in her defense. 
She rose, and to my astonishment and dismay, addressed me 
thus : " Father, I respect your authority within reasonable 
limits, but you demand too much — I am now eighteen, capable, 
if ever, to think for myself, and I hope in this free country, that 
women have some rights. The law which you have read I 
revolt against — it is gothic, obsolete, and I deny its authority. 
Have not women souls ? Have they not reason 1 is it not 
given them for a guide, and is it not a duty which they owe to 
themselves, and to heaven, to improve their talent, and not like 
the unprofitable servant to bury it ?" 

Astonishment held me dumb ; my two youngest instantly 
rose and avowed their sister's sentiments, and even Deborah, 
my old and faithful help-mate ; Deborah, the wife of my bosom, 
took sides against me ! My three eldest stuck to me, but gave 
me little aid — things of this sort are not their forte. Finding 
such determined opposition, and supported by such numbers, I 
thought it best not to proceed to extremities, but gave the cul- 
prits one week to consider and repent of their ways — assuring 
them that I would be master in my family, and that the name of 
Squaretoes should not be disgraced. But see, Mr. Bachelor, 
the straits to which you have reduced me — my rules violated — 
my authority trampled on — my family in open rebellion : how, 
sir, can you repair this injury — what amends can you make me 
for order and good government destroyed, and anarchy and dis- 
order introduced, and confusion worse confounded ? 

Your injured and offended fellow-citizen, 

Obadiah Squaretoes. 



WIT AND HUMOR. 383 



AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY.— Halleck. 

She shone at every concert ; where are bought 
Tickets, by all who wish them, for a dollar ; 

She patronised the theater, and thought 

That Wallack looked extremely well in Rolla ; 

She fell in love, as all the ladies do, 

With Mr. Simpson — talked as loudly, too 

As any beauty of the highest grade, 

To the gay circle in the box beside her ; 

And when the pit — half vexed and half afraid, 
With looks of smothered indignation eyed her; 

She calmly met their gaze, and stood before 'em, 

Smiling at vulgar taste, and mock decorum. 

And though by no means a " Bas bleu" she had 
For literature, a most becoming passion ; 

Had skimmed the latest novels, good and bad, 

And read the Croakers, when they were in fashion ; 

And Doctor Chalmers' sermons, of a Sunday ; 

And Woodworth's Cabinet, and the new Salmagundi. 

She was among the first and warmest patrons 

Of G******'s conversaziones, where 
In rainbow groups, our bright eyed maids and matrons, 

On science bent, assemble ; to prepare 
Themselves for acting well, in life, their part 
As wives and mothers. There she learned by heart 

Words, to the witches in Macbeth unknown. 

Hydraulics, hydrostatics, and 'pneumatics, 
Dioptrics, optics, katoptrics, carbon, 

Chlorine, and iodine, and aerostatics ; 
Also, — why frogs, for want of air, expire ; 
And how to set the Tappan sea 'on fire ! 

In all the modern languages she was 

Exceedingly well versed ; and had devoted, 

To their attainment, far more time than has 
By the best teachers lately, been allotted; 

For she had taken lessons, twice a week, 

For a full month in each ; and she could speak 



384 young lady's reader. 

French and Italian, equally as well 

As Chinese, Portuguese, or German ; and, 

What is still more surprising, she could spell 
Most of our longest English words, off hand ; 

Was quite familiar in Low Dutch and Spanish, 

And thought of studying modern Greek and Danish. 

She sang divinely : and in " Love's young dream," 
And " Fanny dearest" and " The soldier's bride ;" 

And every song whose dear delightful theme, 
Is " Love, still love." had oft till midnight tried 

"Her finest, loftiest pigeon-wings of sound, 

Waking the very watchmen far around. 



FASHIONS.— Paulding. 

Mrs. Toole has for some time reigned unrivalled in the fash- 
ionable world, and had the supreme direction of caps, bonnets, 
feathers, flowers, and tinsel. She has dressed and undressed 
our ladies just as she pleased ; now loading them with velvet 
and wadding, now turning them adrift on the world, to run 
shivering through the streets with scarcely a covering to their 
— backs ; and now obliging them to drag a long train at their 
heels, like the tail of a paper kite. Her despotic sway, howev- 
er, threatens to be limited. A dangerous rival has sprung up 
in the person of Madame Bouchard, an intrepid little woman, 
fresh from the head-quarters of fashion and folly, and who has 
burst like a second Buonaparte upon the fashionable world. 
Mrs. Toole, notwithstanding, seems determined to dispute her 
ground bravely for the honor of old England. The ladies have 
begun to arrange themselves under the banner of one or other 
of these heroines of the needle, and every thing portends open 
war. Madame Bouchard marches gallantly to the field, flourish- 
ing a flaming red robe lor a standard, "flouting the skies;" 
and Mrs. Toole, no ways dismayed, sallies out under cover 
of artificial flowers, like Malcolm's host. Both parties possess 
great merit, and both deserve the victory. Mrs. Toole charges 
the highest, but Madame Bouchard makes the lowest courtesy. 
Madame Bouchard is a little short lady — nor is there any hope 
of her growing larger; but then she is perfectly genteel, and 
bo is Mrs. Toole. Mrs. Toole lives in Broadway, and Mad- 



"WIT AND HUMOR. 385 

ame Bouchard in Courtland street ; but Madame atones for 
the inferiority of her stand, by making two courtesies to Mrs. 
Toole's one, and talking French like an angel. Mrs. Toole 
is the best looking, but Madame Bouchard wears a most be- 
witching little scrubby wig. Mrs. Toole is the tallest, but 
Madame Bouchard has the longest nose. Mrs. Toole is fond 
of roast beef, but Madame is loyal in her adherence to onions ; 
in short, so equally are the merits of the two ladies balanced, 
that there is no judging which will " kick the beam." It, how- 
ever, seems to be the prevailing opinion, that Madame Bouchard 
will carry the day, because she wears a wig, has a long nose, 
talks French, loves onions, and does not charge above ten 
times as much for a thing as it is worth. 

Under the direction of these high-priestesses of the beau-monde, 
the following is the fashionable morning dress for walking : 

If the weather be very cold, a thin muslin gown or frock is 
most advisable, because it agrees with the season, being per- 
fectly cool. The neck, arms, and particularly the elbows, bare, 
in order that they may be agreeably painted and mottled by Mr. 
John Frost, nose-painter-general, of the color of Castile soap. 
Shoes of kid, the thinnest that can possibly be procured — as 
they tend to promote colds, and make a lady look interesting 
(i. e. grizzly.) Picnic silk stockings, with lace clocks — flesh- 
colored are most fashionable, as they have the appearance of 
bare legs — nudity being all the rage. The stockings carelessly 
bespattered with mud, to agree with the gown, which should be 
bordered about three inches deep with the most fashionably 
colored mud that can be found : the ladies permitted to hold up 
their trains, after they have swept two or three streets, in order 
to show — the clocks of their stockings. The shawl, scarlet, 
crimson, flame, orange, salmon, or any other combustible or 
brimstone color, thrown over one shoulder, like an Indian blan- 
ket, with one end dragging on the ground. 

N. B. — If the ladies have not a red shawl at hand, a red 
petticoat, turned topsy-turvy over the shoulders, would do just 
as well. This is called being dressed a-la-drabble. 

When the ladies do not go abroad of a morning, the usual 
chimney-corner dress is a dotted, spotted, striped, or cross-bar- 
red gown — a yellowish, whitish, smokish, dirty-colored shawl, 
and the hair curiously ornamented with little bits of newspa- 
pers, or pieces of a letter from a dear friend. This is called 
the " Cinderella dress." 

33 



386 young lady's reader. 

The recipe for a full dress is as follows : — 

Take of spider-net, crape, satin, gymp, catgut, gauze, whale- 
bone, lace, bobbin, ribands, and artificial flowers, as much as 
will rig out the congregation of a village church ; to these add 
as many spangles, beads, and gew-gaws, as would be sufficient 
to turn the heads of all the fashionable fair ones of Nootka 
Sound. Let Mrs. Toole, or Madame Bouchard, patch all 
these articles together, one upon another, dash them plentifully 
over with stars, bugles, and tinsel, and they will altogether form a 
dress, which, hung upon a lady's back, cannot fail of supplying 
the place of beauty, youth, and grace, and of reminding the spec- 
tator of that celebrated region of finery, called Rag Fair. 



WYOMING.— Halleck. 

But where are they, the beings of the mind, 
The bard's creation, molded not of clay, 
Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned — 
Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave — where are they ? 
We need not ask. The people of to-day 
Appear good, honest, quiet men enough, 
And hospitable too — for ready pay, — 
With manners like their roads, a little rough, 
And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, though tough. 

Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate, 
And the town records, is the Albert now 
Of Wyoming : like him, in church and state, 
Her doric column ; and upon his brow 
The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow, 
Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 't were in vain 
To point out here, unless in yon scare-crow, 
That stands full-uniformed upon the plain, 
To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain. 

For he would look particularly droll 
In his " Iberian boot" and " Spanish plume," 
And be the wonder of each Christian soul 
As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom. 
But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom, 
Hath many a model here, — for woman's eye, 
In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home, 



WIT AND HUMOR. 887 

Hath a heart-spell too holy and too high 
To be o'er-praised even by her worshipper — Poesy. 

There's one in the next field — of sweet sixteen — 
Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born 
In heaven — with her jacket of light green, 
" Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn," 
Without a shoe or stocking, — hoeing corn. 



LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN, TO 
ASEM HACC HEM .—Paulding. 

Thou wilt doubtless be anxious to learn our reception in this 
country, and how we were treated by a people whom we have 
been accustomed to consider as unenlightened barbarians. 

On landing, we were waited upon to our lodgings, I suppose 
according to the directions of the municipality, by a vast and 
respectable escort of boys and negroes, who shouted and threw 
up their hats, doubtless to do honor to the magnanimous Mus- 
tapha, captain of a ketch ; they were somewhat ragged and 
dirty in their equipments, but this was attributed to their repub- 
lican simplicity. One of them, in the zeal of admiration, 
threw an old shoe, which gave thy friend rather an ungentle 
salutation on one side of the head, whereat I was not a little 
offended, until the interpreter informed us that this was the cus- 
tomary manner in which great men were honored in this coun- 
try ; and that the more distinguished they were, the more they 
were subjected to the attacks and peltings of the mob. Upon 
this I bowed my head three times, with my hands to my turban, 
and made a speech in Arabic-Greek, which gave great satis- 
faction, and occasioned a shower of old shoes, hats, and so 
forth, that was exceedingly refreshing to us all. 

Thou wiit not as yet expect that I should give thee an ac- 
count of the laws and politics of this country. I will reserve 
them for some future letter, when I shall be more experienced 
in their complicated and seemingly contradictory nature. 

This empire is governed by a grand and most puissant 
bashaw, whom they dignify with the title of President. He is 
chosen by persons, who are chosen by an assembly, elected by 
the people — hence the mob is called the sovereign people — and 
the country, free ; the body politic doubtless resembling a ves- 
sel,, which is best governed by its tail. The present bashaw is. 



388 young lady's reader. 

a very plain old gentleman — something they say of a humorist, 
as he amuses himself with impaling butterflies, and pickling 
tadpoles; he is rather declining in popularity, having given 
great offense by wearing red breeches, and tying his horse to a 
post. The people of the United States have assured me that 
they themselves are the most enlightened nation under the sun ; 
but thou knowest that the barbarians of the desert, who assem- 
ble at the summer solstice, to shoot their arrows at that glori- 
ous luminary, in order to extinguish his burning rays, make pre- 
cisely the same boast ; — which of them have the superior 
claim, I shall not attempt to decide. 

I have observed, with some degree of surprise, that the men 
of this country do not seem in haste to accommodate them- 
selves even with the single wife, which alone the laws permit 
them to marry ; this backwardness is probably owing to the 
misfortune of their absolutely having no female mutes among 
them. Thou knowest how invaluable are these silent compan- 
ions; what a price is given for them in the East, and what en- 
tertaining wives they make. What delightful entertainment 
arises from beholding the silent eloquence of their signs and 
gestures ; but a wife possessed both of a tongue and a soul — 
monstrous! monstrous! Is it astonishing that these unhappy 
infidels should shrink from a union with a woman so preposter- 
ously endowed ? 

Thou hast doubtless read in the works of Abul Faraj, the 
Arabian historian, the tradition which mentions that the muses 
were once upon the point of falling together by the ears, about 
the admission of a tenth among their number, until she assured 
them, by signs, that she was dumb; whereupon they received 
her With great rejoicing. I should, perhaps, inform thee that 
there are but nine christian muses, who were formerly pagans, 
but have since been converted, and that in this country we 
never hear of a tenth, unless some crazy poet wishes to pay an 
hyperbolical compliment to his mistress ; on which occasion it 
goes hard, but she figures as a tenth muse, or fourth grace, even 
though she should be more illiterate than a Hottentot, and more 
ungraceful than a dancing bear! Since my arrival in this 
country, I have met not less than a hundred of these supernu- 
merary muses and graces — and may Allah preserve me from 
ever meeting any more ! 

When I have studied this people more profoundly, I will 
write thee again ; in the meantime watch over my household, 
and do not beat my beloved wives, unless you catch them with 



TRAGEDY. 389 

their noses out at the window. Though far distant, and a 
slave, let me live in thy heart as thou livesi in mine : — think 
not, O friend of my soul, that the splendors of this luxurious 
capital, its gorgeous palaces, its stupendous mosques, and the 
beautiful females who run wild in herds about its streets, can 
obliterate thee from my remembrance. Thy name shall be 
mentioned in the five-and-twenty prayers which I offer up daily ; 
and may our great prophet, after bestowing on thee all the 
blessings of this life, at length, in a good old age, lead thee 
gently by the hand, to enjoy the dignity of bashaw of three 
tails in the blissful bowers of Eden. Mustapha. 



TRAGEDY, 



ORRA. — Joanna Baillie. 



Persons of the Drama. 

MEN. 

Hughobert, Count of Aldenbcrg. 

Glottenbae, his Son. 

Theobold of Falkekstein, a No- 
bleman of reduced fortune, and 
Co-burgher of Basle. 

Rudigrre, a Knight, and Comman- 
der of a Free Company. 

Hartmann, Friend of Theobold, 
and Banneret of Basle. 

Urston, a Confessor. 



Franko, Chief of a band of Out- 
laws. 

Maurice, an agent of Rudigere's. 

Soldiers, Vassals, Outlaws, <§fc. 
WOMEN. 

Orra, Heiress of another branch of 
the family of Aldenbcrg, and ward 
to Hughobert. 

Eleanora, wife to Hughobert. 

Cathrina, ) Ladies attending on 

Alice, $ Orra. 



Scene — Switzerland, in the Canton of Basle, and, afterwards in the borders 
of the Black Forest, in Suabia. Time — towards the end of the Fourteentli 
Century. 

Act 1. — Scene 1. — An open space before the walls of a castle, 
with wild mountains beyond it. 

(Enter Glottenbal, armed as from the lists, but bare-headed 
and disordered, whilst an attendant follows bearing a helmet ; 
with him enters Maurice, followed by Rudigere, also armed, who 
keeps by himself) 

Glot. (Speaking loud and boastfully.) 
Aye, let him triumph in his paltry honors, 

33* 



390 young lady's reader. 

Won by mere trick and accident. Good faith ! 
It were a shame to call it strength or skill. 
Were it not Rudigere 1 (Rudigere answers not.) 

Maur. His brow is dark, his tongue is locked, my lord 
There come no words from him ; he bears it not 
So manfully as thou dost, noble Glottenbal. 

Glot. Fy on't ! I mind it not. 

Maur. And wherefore should'st thou ? 
This same Theobold, 

Count and Co-burgher — mixture most unseemly 
Of base and noble, — know ye not right well 
What powers assist him ? Marked you not, my lord, 
How he did turn him to the witchy north, 
When first he mounted ; making his fierce steed, 
That pawed and reared, and shook its harnessed neck 
In generous pride, bend meekly to the earth 
Its mained crest, like one who made obeisance. 

Glot. Ha ! did'st thou really see it ? 

Maur. Yes, brave Glottenbal, 
I did right truly ; and besides myself, 
Many observed it. 

Glot. Well let him boast. 
Boasting I scorn ; but I will shortly shew him 
What these good arms, with no foul play against them, 
Can honestly achieve. 

Maur. Yes, good my lord ; but choose you well your day : 
A moonless Friday luck did never bring- 
To honest combatant. 

Glot. Ha ! blessing on thee ! I ne'er thought of this : 
Be sure thou tell to every one thou meet'st, 
Friday and a slack moon suit Theobold. 
Ho ! Rudigere ! heard'st thou not this ? 

Rud. (As he goes off, aside to Maurice.) 
Flatter the fool awhile and let me go, 
I cannot join thee now. (Exit.) 

Glot. Is he not crest-fallen ? 

Maur. He lacks your noble spirit, 

Glot. Fy upon't ! 
I heed it not. Yet by my sword and spurs ! 
'T was a foul turn, that for my rival earned 
A branch of victory from Orra's hand. 

Maur. Look where he proudly comes. 

(Enter Theobold with a green sprig in his helmet.) 



TRAGEDY. 391 

Glot. Coraest thou to face me so ? Audacious burgher, 
The Lady Orra's favor suits thee not, 
Tho' for a time thou hast upon me gained 
A seeming vantage. 

Theo. A seeming vantage ! Then it is not true, 
That thou unhorsed, laid'st rolling in the dust, 
Asking for quarters ? Let me crave thy pardon ; 
Some strange delusion hung upon our sight, 
That we believed it so. 

Glot. Off with thy taunts ! 
And pull that sprig from its audacious perch : 
The favor of a dame too high for thee. 

Theo. Too high, indeed, and had'st thou also added 
Too good, too fair, I had assented to it. 
Yet, be it known unto your courteous worth, 
That were the sprig a queen's gift, or received 
From the brown hand of some poor mountain maid, 
I would not give it thee. 

Glot. Then 1 will have it. (Snatching at it in rage.) 
(Enter Hartmann and separates them.) 

Hart. What ! Malice after fighting in the lists 
As noble courteous knights ! 

Glot. Go, paltry Banneret ! Such friends as thou 
Become such lords as he, whose ruined state 
Seeks the base fellowship of restless burghers ; 
Thinking to humble still with envious spite, 
The great and noble houses of the land. 
I know ye well, and I defy ye both. {Exit.) 

Theo. And this is he 
Whom sordid and ambitious Hughobert, 
The guardian in the selfish father sunk, 
.Destines for Orra's husband. — O foul shame! 
The carrion crow and royal eagle joined 
Make not so cross a match. But think'st thou 
She will submit to it ? 

Hart. That may be as thou pleasest, Falkenstein. 

Theo. Nay ! now thou mockest me. Saving this favor, 
Which every victor in these listed combats 
From ladies' hands receive, nor then regard 
As more than due and stated courtesy, 
She ne'er hath honored me with word or look 
Such hope to warrant. 

Hart, Wait not thou for looks. 



392 rouNG lady's reader. 

Theo. Thou would'st not have me, to a dame like this, 
With rich domains and titled rights encompassed, 
These simple limbs, girt in their soldier's gear, 
My barren hills and ruined tower present, 
And say, " Accept, — these will I nobly give 
In fair exchange for thee and all thy wealth." 
No Rudolph Hartmann, woo the maid thyself, 
If thou hast courage for it. 

Hart. Yes, Theobold of Frankenstein, I will, 
And win her too ; but all for thy behoof. 
And when I do present, as thou hast said, 
These simple limbs, girt in their soldier's gear, 
Adding thy barren hills and ruined tower, 
"With some few items more of gen'rous worth, 
And native sense, and manly fortitude, 
I'll give her in return for all that she, 
Or any maid can in such barter give, — 
Its fair and ample worth. 

Theo. So thou dost reckon. 

Hart. And so will Orra. Do not shake thy head. 
T know the maid : for still she has received me 
As one who knew her noble father well ; 
And her stern guardian, viewing these gray hairs 
And this rough visage with no jealous eye, 
Hath still admitted it — I'll woo her for thee. 

Theo. I do in truth believe thou mean'st me well. 

Hart. And is this all thou say'st ? Is she not fair ? 

Theo. O fair indeed as woman need be formed, 
To please and be beloved. Though, to speak honestly, 
I've fairer seen ; yet such a form as Orra's 
Forever in my busy fancy dwells. 
Why wilt thou urge me on to meet her scorn ? 
I am not worthy of her. 

Hart. Go too, I praise thy modesty short while, 
And now with dull and senseless perseverance 
Thou would'st o'erlay me with it. Go thy ways ; 
If through thy fault, thus shrinking from the onset, 
She with that furious cub be matched, 't will rest 
Upon thy conscience, gnawing shrewdly. (Exeunt.) 

Scene 2. — A spacious apartment .-(Enter Hughobert and Urston.) 

Hugh. (With angry gesticulation.) 
I feed and clothe these drones, and in return 



TRAGEDY. 393 

They cheat, deceive, abuse me ; nay belike, 
Laugh in their sleeves the while. By their advice 
This cursed tourney I proclaimed ; for still 
They puffed me with the praises of my son ; 
And so in Orra's eyes to give him honor, 
Full surely did I think — I'll hang them all ! 
I'll heap my boards no more with dainty fare, 
To feed false flatterers. But, heaven be praised, 
He wants not strength at least, and well turned limbs, 
Had they but taught him how to use them. Knaves ! 
They have neglected him. 

(Enter Glottenbal, who shrinks back on seeing them.) 
Advance, young sir. Art thou afraid of me, 
That thus thou shrink'st like a skulking thief, 
To make disgrace the more apparent in thee ? 

Glot. Yes, call it then disgrace, or what you please ; 
Had not my lance's point somewhat awry 
Glanced on his shield 

Hugh. E'en so ; I doubt it not ; 
Thy lance's point, and every thing about thee 
Hath glanced awry. Go, rid my house, I say, 
Of all those feasting flatterers that deceive thee ; 
They harbor here no more — dismiss them quickly. 

Glot. Do it yourself, my lord ; you are, I trow, 
Angry enough to do it sharply. 

Hugh, [to Urslon.) Faith! 
He gibes me fairly here ; there's reason in't; 
Fools speak not thus, (to Glot.) Go to ! if I am angry, 
Thou art a graceless son to tell me so. 

Glot. Have you not bid me still to speak the truth ? 

Hugh, (to Urston.) Again thou hearest he makes an apt 
reply. 

TJrst. He wants not words. 

Hugh. Nor meaning neither. (Enter Eleanora.) 
Well, dame, where hast thou been ? 

Elea. I came from Orra. 

Hugh. Hast thou been pleading in our son's excuse ? 
And how did she receive it ? 

Elea. I tried to do it, but her present humor 
Is jest and merriment. She is behind me. 

Glot. (listening.) Aye, she is coming ; light and quick her 
steps ; 
So sound they, when her spirits are unruly. 
But I am bold ; she shall not mock me now. 



394 young lady's header. 

Enter Orra, {tripping gaily.") 
Methinks you trip it briskly, gentle dame. 

Or. Does it offend you, noble knight ? 

Glot. Go to ! I know your meaning. 
Wherefore smile you so ? 

Or. Because good sooth ! with tired and aching sides, 
I have not power to laugh. 

Glot. Full well I know why thou so merry art. 
Thou think'st of him to whom thou gav'st that sprig 
Of hopeful green, his rusty casque to grace, 
Whilst at thy feet his honored glove he laid. 

Or. Nay, rather say, of him who at my feet, 
From his proud courser's back, more gallantly 
Laid his most precious self; then stole away 
Thro' modesty, unthanked, nor left behind 
Of all his gear that fluttered in the dust, 
Or glove, or band, or fragment of torn hose, 
For dear remembrance sake, that in my sleeve 
I might have stuck it. 0, thou wrong'st me much, 
To think my merriment a ref 'rence hath 
To anyone but him. [Laughing.) 

Elea. Nay Orra, these wild fits of uncurbed laughter, 
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, 
As it has lowered of late, so keenly cast, 
Unsuited seems and strange. 

Or. O nothing strange, my Eleanora. 
Did'st thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, 
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud 
In the sunned glimpse of a stormy day, 
Shiver in silvery brightness ? 
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning, flash 
In the faint gleam that like a spirit's path 
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake ? 
Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods, 
Give to the parting of a wint'ry sun 
One hasty glance, in mockery of the night 
Closing in darkness round it? Gentle friend! 
Chide not her mirth, who was sad yesterday, 
And may be so to-morrow. 

Glot. And wherefore art thou so sad, unless it is 
From thine own wayward humor? Other dames, 
Were they so courted, would be gay and happy. 
Or. Wayward it needs must be, since I am sad 



TRAGEDY. 395 

When such perfection woos me. 

Pray, good Glottenbal, 

How did'st thou learn, with such a wondrous grace 

To toss thy armed heels up in the air, 

And clutch with outspread hands the slipp'ry sand? 

As this, of all the feats which thou, beforehand, 

Did'st promise to perform, most modestly, 

Thou did'st forbear to mention. 

Glot. I care not for thy gibing. With fair lists 
And no black arts against me — 

Hugh. Hold thy peace ! 
And, madam, be at least somewhat restrained 
In your unruly humor. 

Or. Pardon, my lord, I knew not you were near me ; 
My humor is unruly : with your leave, 
I will retire till I have curbed it better. 
I would not lose your company, sweet Countess. 

Elea. We'll go together, then. [Exit Orra and Eleanora.) 

Hugh. There is no striving with a forward girl, 
Nor pushing on a fool. My harrassed life, 
Day after day, more irksome grows. 
I'll toil no more for this untoward match. 

Act 2. — Scene 1. — A garden, Orra, Theobold,and Hartmann. 

Orra. [to Hart.) And so, since fate has made me wo the 
day! 
That poor and good for nothing, helpless being, 
Woman yclept, I must consign myself, 
With all my lands and rights, unto the hands 
Of some proud man, and say, " Take all, I pray, 
And do me in return, the grace and favor 
To be my master." 

Hart. Nay, gentle lady ! you constrain my words, 
And load them with a meaning harsh and foreign 
To what they truly bear. A master! No : 
A valiant, gentle mate, who in the field, 
Or in the council, will maintain your right: 
A noble, equal partner. 

Or. (shaking her head.) Well I know, 
In such a partnership, the share of power 
Allotted to the wife. Say, noble Falkenstein, 
What's your advice, my lord? 
Theo. Ah, noble Orra ! 



i 



396 young lady's reader. 

'Twere like self-murder, to give honest counsel! 
Then urge me not : — I frankly do confess 
I should be more heroic than I am. 

Or. Right well I see thy head approves my plan, 
And by and by so will thy gen'rous heart. 
In short, I would, without another's leave, 
Improve the low condition of my peasants, 
And cherish them in peace. Even now methinks 
Each little cottage of my native vale, 
Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof, 
Like to a hillock moved by laboring mole, 
And with green trail weeds clambering up its walls, 
Roses and every gay and fragrant plant, 
Before my fancy stands a fairy bower. 
Aye, and within it too do fairies dwell ; 
Peep thro' its wreathed window, if indeed 
The flowers grow not too close ; and there within 
Thou'lt see some half a dozen rosy brats, 
Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk ; 
These are my mountain elves. See'st thou not 
Their very forms distinctly ? 

Theo. 0, most distinctly ! And most beautiful 
The sight ! Which sweetly stirreth in the heart 
Feelings that gladden and ennoble it, 
Dancing like sun-beams on the rippled sea! 
A blessed picture ! Foul befall the man 
Whose narrow, selfish soul would shade, or mar it ! 

Hart. To this right heartily I say amen ! 
But if there be a man whose gen'rous soul 
Like ardor fills, who would with thee pursue 
Thy gen'rous plan, who would his harness don — 

Or. Nay, valiant Banneret, who would, an' please you 
His harness doff: all feuds, all strife forbear, 
All military rivalship, all lust 
Of added power, and live in steady quietness, 
A mild and fostering lord. Know you of one 
That would so share my task ? You answer not, 
And your brave friend, methinks, casts on the ground 
A thoughtful look ; wots he of such a lord ? 

Theo. Wot I of such a lord ! — No, noble Orra, 
I do not, nor does Hartmann, tho' perhaps 
His friendship may betray his judgment. 
None such exist ; we are all fierce, contentious, 



TRAGEDY. 397 

Restless and proud, and prone to vengeful feuds ; 
The very distant sound of war excites us, 
Like coursers listening to the chase, who paw, 
And fret, and bite the curbing rein. Trust none 
To cross thy gentle, but most princely purpose, 
Who hath on head a circling helmet wore, 
Or ever grasped a glave. But ne'ertheless 
There is — I know a man. — Might I be bold ? 

Or. Being so honest, boldness is your right. 

Tkeo. Permitted then, I'll say, I know a man, 
The most unworthy Orra's lord to be, 
Who, as her champion, friend, devoted soldier, 
Might yet commend himself ; and, so received, 
Who would at her command, for her defense, 
His sword right proudly draw. An honored sword, 
Like that which at the gates of paradise, 
From steps profane the blessed region guarded. 

Or. Thanks to the gen'rous knight ; I also know 
The man thou would'st commend ; and when my state 
Such service needeth, to no sword but his 
Will I that service owe. 

Theo. Most noble Orra ! greatly is he honored ; 
And will not murmur that a higher wish, 
Too high, and too presumptuous, is represt. 
(Enter a Servant.) 

Ser. The Count is now at leisure to receive 
The lord of Falkenstein and Rodolph Hartmann. 

Hart. We shall attend him shortly. (Exit Ser.) 
(Aside to Tkeo.) Must we now our purposed suit, 
To some pretended matter of slighter import change. 

Theo. (Aside to Hart.) Assuredly — 
Madam, I take my leave with all devotion. 

Hart. I with all friendly wishes. (Exeunt both.) 

(Enter Cathrina and Alice.) 

Cath. Madam, you are thoughtful ; something occupies 
Your busy mind. 

Or. What was 't we talked of, when the worthy Banneret 
With Falkenstein upon our converse broke 1 

Cath. How we should spend our time, when in your castle 
You shall your state maintain in ancient splendor, 
With all your vassals round you. 

Or. Aye, so it was. 

Al. And you did say, my lady, 
34 



398 young lady's reader. 

It should not be a cold, unsocial grandeur ; 
That you would keep, the while, a merry house. 

Or. 0, doubt it not ! I'll gather round my board 
All that heaven sends to me of way-worn folks, 
And noble travelers, and neighboring friends, 
Both young and old. Within my ample hall, 
The worn-out man of arms shall o' tip-toe tread, 
Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow, 
With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats 
Of days gone by. — Music we'll have ; and oft 
The bick'ring dance, upon our oaken floors 
Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear 
Of 'nighted travelers, who shall gladly bend 
Their doubtful footsteps toward the cheering din : 
Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure, 
We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels ? 

Al. O, passing well ! 't will be a pleasant life ; 
Free from all stern subjection ; blithe and fanciful ; 
We'll do whate'er we list. 

Caih. That right and prudent is, I hope thou meanest- 

Al. Why ever so suspicious and so strict? 
How could'st thou think I had another meaning? 
(To Orra.) And shall we ramble in the woods full oft, 
With hound and horn? That is my dearest joy. , 

Or. Thou runn'st me fast, good Alice. Do not doubt 
This shall be wanting to us. Ev'ry season 
Shall have its suited pastime : even winter 
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow, 
And choked up valleys from our mansions bar 
All entrance, and no guest nor traveler 
Sounds at our gate ; the empty hall forsaking, 
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire, 
We'll hold our little, snug domestic court, 
Plying our work with song and tale between. 

Cath. And stories too, I ween, of ghosts and spirits, 
And things unearthly, that on Michael's eve 
Rise from the yawning tombs. 

Or. Thou thinkest then one night o' the year is truly 
More horrid than the rest. 

Cath. Perhaps it is only silly superstition : 
Hast thou ne'er heard the story of Count Hugo, 
Thy ancestor, who slew the hunted knight ? 
Or. Tell it, I pray thee. 



TRAGEDY. 399 

Al. Cathrina, tell it not : it is not right : 
Such stories ever change her cheerful spirits 
To gloomy pensiveness ; her rosy bloom 
To the wan color of a shrouded corse. 
[To Orra.) What pleasure is there, lady, when thy hand, 
Cold as the valley's ice, with hasty grasp 
Seizes on her who speaks, while thy shrunk form 
Cowering and shivering stands with keen turned ear, 
To catch what follows of the pausing tale ? 

Or. And let me cow'ring stand, and be my touch 
The valley's ice : there is a pleasure in it! 

Al. Say'st thou, indeed, there is a pleasure in it ? 

Or. Yea, when the cold blood shoots through every vein ; 
When every hair's pit on my shrunken skin, 
A knotted knole becomes, and to mine ears 
Strange inward sounds awake, and to mine eyes 
Rush stranger tears, there is a joy in fear. 
Tell it Cathrina, for the life within me 
Beats thick, and stirs to hear it. 
He slew the hunter knight. 

Cath. Since I must tell it, then, the story goes, 
That grim Count Wallenburg, the ancestor 
Of Hughobert and also of yourself, 
From hatred or from envy, did decoy 
A noble knight, who hunted in the forest, 
Well the Black Forest named, into his castle, 
And there, within his chamber, murdered him. — 

Or. Merciful heaven ! and in my veins there runs 
A murderer's blood. Said'st thou not, murdered him ? 

Cath. Aye, as he lay asleep, at dead of night. 

Or. A deed most horrible ! 

Cath. It was on Michael's eve, and since that time, 
The neighb'ring hinds oft hear the midnight yell 
Of specter hounds, and see the specter shapes 
Of huntsmen on their sable steeds, with still 
A noble hunter riding in the van, 
To cheer the desperate chase, by moonlight shewn, 
When wanes its horn, in long October nights. 

Or. This hath been often seen 1 

Cath. Aye, so they say, 
But as the story goes, on Michael's eve, 
And on that night alone of all the year, 
The hunter knight himself, having a horn 



400 young lady's reader. 

Thrice sounded at the gates, the castle enters ; 
And in the very chamber where he died, 
Calls on his murderer, or in his default. 
Some true descendant of his house, to loose 
His spirit from its torment ; for his body 
Is laid in the earth unblessed, and none can tell 
The spot of its interment. 

Or. Call on some true descendant of his race \ 
It were to such, a fearful interview. 
Hath he elsewhere to any of the race appeared? 
Or hath he power 

Al. Nay, nay, forbear: 
See how she looks. I fear thou art not well. 

Or. There is a sickly faintness come upon me. 

Al. And did'st thou say there is a joy in fear? 

Or. My mind, of late, has strange impressions ta'en ; 
I know not how it is. 

Al. A few nights since, stealing o' tip-toe, 
Softly through your chamber to my own 

Or. O, heaven defend us ! did'st thou see aught there ? 

Al. Only your sleeping self. But you appeared 
Distressed and troubled in your dreams ; and once 
I thought to wake you, ere I left the chamber, 
But I forbore. 

Or. And glad I am thou did'st. 
It is not dreams I fear ; for still with me 
There is an indistinctness o'er them cast, 
Like the dull gloom of misty twilight, where 
Before mine eyes pass all incongruous things, 
Huge, horrible, and strange, on which I stare, 
As idiots do upon this changeful world, 
"With nor surprise nor speculation. No, 
Dreams I fear not : it is the dreadful waking, 
When in deep midnight stillness, the roused fancy 
Takes up th' imperfect shadows of its sleep, 
Like a marred speech snatched from a bungler's mouth, 
Shaping their forms distinctively and vivid, 
To visions horrible: this is my bane ; — 
It is the dreadful waking that I fear. 

Al. Well, speak of other things. There, in good time, 
Your ghostly father comes with quickened steps. 
{Enter Urston.) 

Or. Father, you seem disturbed. 



TRAGEDY. 401 

Urst. Daughter, I am in truth disturbed; The Count 
Has o'the sudden, being much enraged 
That Falkenstein still lingers near these walls, 
Resolved to send thee hence, to be a while 
In banishment detained, till on his son 
Thou look'st with better favor. 
Therefore I would advise thee 
To feign at least, but for a little time, 
A disposition to obey his wishes. 

Or. What said'st thou, father ? 
To feign a disposition to obey ! 
I did mistake thy words. 

Urst. No, gentle daughter ; 
So pressed, thou mayest feign, and yet be blameless. 
A trusty guardian's faith with thee he holds not, 
And therefore thou art free to meet his wrongs 
With what defense thou hast. 

Or. Nay, pardon me ; I, with an unshorn crown, 
Must hold the truth in plain simplicity, 
And am in nice distinctions most unskillful. 

Urst. Lady, have I deserved this sharpness ? Oft 
Thine infant hand has stroked this shaven crown : 
Thou'st ne'er till now reproached it. 

Or. [Bursting into tears.) Pardon, O pardon me, my gentle 
Urston ! 
Pardon a wayward child, whose eager temper 
Doth sometimes mar the kindness of her heart. 
Father, am I forgiven ? 

Urst. Thou art, thou art forgiven, 
More than forgiven, my child. 

Scene 2. — A Baron's hall — Hughobert seated in state, with 
Eleanora and Glottenbal. Enter Orra, Urston, Alice, and 
Cathrina. 
Hugh. Madam and ward, placed under mine authority, 

And to my charge committed by my kinsman, 

Ulrice of Aldenberg, thy noble father ; 

Having all gentle means essayed, to win thee 

To the fulfilment of his dying will, 

That did decree his heiress should be married 

With Glottenbal, my heir ; I solemnly 

Now call upon thee, ere that rougher means 

Be used for this good end, to promise truly, 

34* 



402 young lady's reader. 

Thou wilt within a short and stated time, 
Before the altar give thy plighted faith 
To this my only son. I want thine answer. 
Orra of Aldenberg, wilt thou do this ? 

Or. Count of the same, my lord and guardian, 
I will not. 

Hugh. Have a care, thou froward maid ! 
'T is thy last opportunity ; ere long 
Thou shalt within a dreary dwelling pent, 
Count thy dull hours, told by the dead man's watch, 
And wish thou had'st not been so proudly willful. 

Or. And let my dull hours by the dead man's watch 
Be told ; yea, make me too the dead man's mate, 
My dwelling place the nailed coffin ; still 
I would prefer it to the living lord 
Your goodness offers me. 

Hugh. Art thou bewitched ? 
Is he not young, well featured, and well formed ? 
And dost thou put him in thy estimation 
With bones and sheeted clay 1 
Beyond endurance is thy stubborn spirit. 
Right well thy father knew that all thy sex 
Stubborn and headstrong are ; therefore in wisdom, 
He vested me with power that might compel 
To what he willed should be. 

Or. 0, not in wisdom ! 
Say rather in that weak and gen'rous faith, 
Which said to him, the cope of heaven would fall 
And smother in its cradle his swathed babe, 
Rather than thou, his mate in arms, his kinsman, 
Who by his side in many a field hath fought, 
Should'st take advantage of his confidence 
For sordid ends. — My brave and noble father! 
A voice comes from thy grave and cries against it, 
And bids me to be bold. Thine awful form 
Rises before me, — and that look of anguish 
On thy dark brow ! no ! I blame thee not. 

Hugh. Thou seem'st beside thyself with such wild gestures 
And strangely flashing eyes. Repress these fancies, 
And to plain reason listen. Thou hast said. 
For sordid ends I have advantage ta'en. 
Since thy brave father's death, by war and compact, 
Thou of thy lands have lost a third ; whilst I, 



TRAGEDY. 403 

By happy fortune, in my heir's behalf, 

Have doubled my domains to what they were 

When Ulric chose him as a match for thee. 

Or. 0, and what speaketh this, but that my father 
Domains regarded not ; and thought a man, 
As thou to him appear'dst, a match more honorable 
Than one of ample state. Take thou from Glottenbal 
The largely added lands of which thou boastest, 
And put, in lieu thereof into his stores 
Some weight of manly sense and gen'rous worth, 
And I will say thou keepest faith with thy friend : 
But as it is, did'st thou unto thy wealth 
A kingdom add, thou poorly would'st deceive him. 

Hugh. (Rising.) Now, Madam, be all counsel on this 
matter 
Between us closed. Prepare thee for thy journey. 

JJrst. For a few days may she not still remain ? 

Hugh. No, priest; Not for an hour. It is my pleasure 
That she for Brunier's castle do set forth 
"Without delay. 

Or: (Starting.) In Brunier's castle ! 

Hugh. And does this change the color of thy cheek, 
And give thy altered a voice a feeble sound ? 
(Aside to Glot.) She shrinks, now to her, boy ; this is thy time. 

Glot. Unless thou wilt, thou need'st not go at all. 
There is full many a maiden would right gladly 
Accept the terms we offer, and remain. 
Wilt thou not answer me 1 

Or. What said'st thou 1 

Glot. I say, accept the terms we offer and remain. 
We are linked, as 'twere, by right and property. 
And as I have said before I say again, 
I love thee too : what more could'st thou desire 1 

Or. I thank thee for thy courtship, though uncouth ; 
For it confirms my purpose ; and my strength 
Grows as thou speak'st, firm like the deep based rock. 
(To Hugh.) Now for my journey when you will, my lord ; 
I 'm ready. 

Hugh. Be it so! on thine own head rest all the blame. 
Perverse past all relief! 
Orra of Aldenberg, wilt thou obey me ? 

Or. Count of that noble house, with all respect, 
Again I say I will not. 



404 young lady's reader. 

Act 3, Scene I. — A Forest near the castle. — Franko, and a 
band of outlaws. 

1st Out. A train of armed men, some noble dame 
Escorting, are close at hand, and mean to pass 
The night within the castle. 

Franko. Nay, by the holy mass ! within those walls 
Not for a night must travelers quietly rest, 
Or few, or many. Would we live securely, 
We must uphold the terrors of the place. 
Be all prepared, before the midnight wateh, 
The fiend-like din of our infernal chase 
Around the walls to raise. Come ; night advances. 

Scene 2. — A room within the castle. — Enter Cathrina and 

Orra. 

Or. Advance no further : turn I pray ! This room 
More dismal and more ghastly seems than that 
Which we have left behind. Thy taper's light, 
The fretted ceiling gilds with feeble brightness, 
Whilst over head its carved ribs glide past 
Like edgy waves of a dark sea, returning 
To an eclipsed moon its sullen sheen. 

Cath. To me it seemed less dismal than the other. 

Or. Methinks I hear the sound of time long past, 
Still murmuring o'er in the lofty void 
Of those dark arches, like the lingering voices 
Of those who long within their graves have slept. 
It was their home ; now it is mine. 

(Sits down, covering her eyes. Enter Rudigere, and beckons to 
Cathrina, and whispers aside. 

Rud. I charge thee also, 
With paramount authority, to leave her : 
I for a while will take thy station here. (Exit Cath.) 

Or. (To herself.) This was the home of bloody, lawless 
power ; 
The very air rests thick and heavily 
Where murder hath been done. 
There is a strange oppression in my breast. 
Dost thou not feel a close unwholesome vapor ? 

Rud. No ; every air to me is light and healthful, 
That with thy sweet and heavenly breath is mixed. 

Or. (Starting up.) Thou here ? Cathrina gone ! 
Retire, Sir Knight. I choose to be alone. 



TRAGEDY. 40' 

Rud. And dost thou choose it, wearing now so near 
The midnight hour, in such a place 1 Alas ! 
How loathed and irksome must my presence be. 

Or. Dost thou not deride my weakness 1 

Rud. I deride it ! 
No, noble maid ! Say rather, that from thee. 
I have a kindred weakness caught. In battle, 
My courage never shrunk ; but now I feel by sympathy, 
With thinking upon thee, fears rise within me 
I never knew before. 

Or. Out on thy hypocrisy ! who but thyself 
Did Hughobert advise to send me hither ? 
And who the jailor's hateful office holds, 
To make my thraldom sure ? 

Rud. O, Orra ! if there's misery in thraldom, 
Pity a wretch who breathes but in thy favor. (Kneeling.) 

Or. Away ! let snakes and vipers come to me, 
So thou dost keep aloof. 

Rud. (Rising.) Madam, beware. 

Or. Darest thou to threaten me 1 

Rud. O, forgive such words. 
There was a time when thou did'st look on me 
With other eyes. 

Or. Thou dost amaze me much. 
Whilst T believed thou wert an honest man, 
I looked upon thee with good will ; if more 
Thou didst discover in my looks than this, 
Thy wisdom with thine honesty, in truth 
Was fairly matched. 

Rud. Madam, the proud derision of that smile 
Deceives me not. It is the lord of Falkenstein, 
Who better skilled than I in tourney-war, 
Engrosses now your partial thoughts. And yet 
What may he boast which in a lover's suit 
I may not urge? He's brave, and so am I. 
And were I Orra's lord, I should break forth 
Like the unclouded sun, by all acknowledged 
As ranking with the highest in the land. 

Or. Do what thou wilt when thou art Orra's lord ; 
But being as thou art, retire and leave me. 

Rud. I will : 
This night, to-morrow night, and every night, 
Shalt thou in solitude be left. Good night. 
It wears already on the midnight hour. (Exit.) 



406 young lady's reader. 

Or. (To herself.) Can fiend or spirit from the tomb 
More hateful, more malignant be, than man ? 
There are who have endured the visitation 
Of supernatural beings. O forfend it! 
Who's there 1 who's there ? (Looking round.) 
Heard I not voices near ? That door ajar 
Sends forth a cheerful light. Perhaps 
Cathrina, who now prepares my chamber. (Exit.) 

Scene 3. — A chamber with a small bed in it. — Rudigere and 
Cathrina conversing. 

Bud. Behold these weapons ! 
He who with high but dangerous fortune grapples, 
Should he be foiled, looks but to friends like these. 
(Pulling out two daggers from his vest.) 
This steel is strong to give a vig'rous thrust; 
The other on its venomed point hath that 
Which in the feeblest hand gives death as certain, 
As though a giant smote the destined prey. 

Cath. Thou desperate man ! so armed against thyself! 

Rud. Aye ; and against myself with such resolves, 
Consider well how I shall deal with those 
Who may withstand my will or mar my purpose. 

Cath. O be pacified. I will begone. (Exit.) 

Rud. (Applying his ear to the lock of next chamber.) 
All still within. I am tired and heavy grown : 
I'll lay me down to rest. She is secure : 
If she hold parley now with any thing 
It must in truth be ghost or sprite. 

(Falls asleep. The cry of hounds heard without. Orra rushes 
in, greatly alarmed.) 

Or. Cathrina! sleepest thou ? Awake! Awake! 
(Starting at seeing Rud.) That viper there ! 
Is this my nightly guard ? detested wretch ! 
I will steal back again, (a horn heard ivithout.) I dare not. 
Though sleeping, and most hateful when awake, 
Still he is natural life and may- be waked. 
Tis nearer now : that thrilling blast ! I must awake him. 
He mutters now my name. I dare not do it. 
I will abide in patient silence here ; 
I feel me still near something of my kind. 

(Presently the horn is heard without, and she starts up.) 
O, it returns ! 't is nearer still : 



TRAGEDY. 407 

'T is close at hand : 't is at the very gate — 
Within the gate. What rushing blast is that 
Shaking the doors ? Some awful visitation 
Dread entrance makes ! mighty God of heaven ! 
A sound ascends the stairs — Ho ! Rudigere, awake ! 
Ho ! Wake thee, Rudigere ! 

Rud. What cry is that so terribly strong ? Ha ! Orra ! 
What is the matter ? 

Or. It is within the walls. Did'st thou not hear it ? 

Rud. What? The loud voice that called me? 

Or. No, it was mine. List, I pray : 
Although more distant now, dost thou not hear 
The yell of hounds ; the specter huntsman's horn ? 

Rud. I hear, indeed, a strangely mingled sound, 
But I '11 protect thee, Orra. 

(Enter several servants, alarmed.) 
What, all these fools upon us ! Staring knaves, 
What bring ye here at this untimely hour ? 

Serv. We've heard the yell of hounds, 
And clattering steeds, and the shrill horn. 

Rud. Ha ! say'st thou so ? 1 '11 to the battlements 
And watch it there. 

Scene 4. — The outlaid's cave. — Franko and Theobold. 

Franko. What is the aid which thou cam'st here to ask ? 

Theo. Last night a lady to the castle came, 
In thraldom by a villian kept, whom I 
Would give my life to rescue. Of armed force 
Being at present destitute, I crave 
Assistance of your counsel and your arms. 

Franko. Gladly I '11 assist thee, 
Though not by arms, the force within the castle 
So far outnumbering mine. But other means 
May serve thy purpose better. 

Theo. What other means I pray ? 

Franko. From these low caves, a passage under ground 
Leads to the castle — to the very tower 
Where, as I guess, the lady is confined ; 
When sleep has stilled the house, we '11 make our way. 
To-morrow is St. Michael's eve : 't were well 
To be the specter huntsman for a night, 
And bear her off without pursuit or hindrance. 

Theo. I understand thee not. 



408 young lady's reader. 

Franko. Thou shalt ere long. 
But stand not here ; an inner room I have 
And there we will more fully talk of this, 
Which slightly mentioned seems chimerical. 
Follow me. 

Act 4, Scene 1. — The ramparts of the castle. — Cathrina 
and Orra. 

Or. Night approaches ! — 
This awful night which living beings shrink from. 
All now of every kind scour to their haunts, 
While darkness, peopled with its host unknown, 
Awful dominion holds. Mysterious night ! 
What things unutterable thy dark hours 
May lap ! What from thy teeming darkness burst 
Of horrid visitations, ere that sun 
Again shall rise on the enlightened earth ! 

Cath. Why dost thou gaze intently on the sky ? 
See'st thou aught wonderful? 

Or. Look thee ; behold that strange gigantic form 
Which yon grim cloud assumes ; rearing aloft 
The semblance of a warrior's plumed head, 
Which from its half shaped arm a streamy dart 
Shoots angrily ? Behind him, too, far stretched, 
Seems there not, verily, a serried line 
Of fainter misty forms. 

Cath. I see, indeed, 
A vasty cloud, of many clouds composed, 
Towering above the rest, and that behind 
In misty faintness seen, which hath some likeness 
To a long line of rocks with pine wood crowned : 
Or, if indeed the fancy so incline, 
A file of spearmen, seen through drifted smoke. 

Or. Nay, look how perfect now the form becomes : 
Dost thou not see 1 Aye, and more perfect still. 
O thou gigantic lord, whose robed limbs 
Beneath their stride span half the heavens ! art thou 
Of lifeless vapor formed ? Art thou not rather 
Some air-clad spirit — some portentous thing — 
Some missioned being 'i Such a sky as this 
Ne'er ushered in a night of nature's rest. 

Cath. Nay, many such I 've seen ; regard it not. 
That form, already changing, will ere long 



TRAGEDY. 409 

Dissolve to nothing. Tarry here no longer, 
Go in, I pray. 

Or. No ; while one gleam remains 
Of the sun's blessed light, I will not go. 

Cath. Then let me fetch a cloak to keep thee warm. 

Or, Do as thou wilt. (Exit Cath. Enter an outlaw.) 

Out. (In a low voice behind her.) Orra ! Lady Orra ! 

Or. (Starting.) Merciful heaven ! Sounds it beneath my 
feet, 
In earth or air 1 Ha ! a man ! 
Welcome is aught that wears a human face. 
Did'st thou not hear a sound 1 

Out. What sound, and please you ? 

Or. A voice which called upon me now : 
It spoke unlike a human voice. 

Out . It was my own. Here is a letter, lady. 

Or. Who sent thee hither ? 

Out. I must be gone. (Exit.) 

Or. Comes it from Falkenstein. It is his seal. 
I may not read it here. I '11 to my chamber. 

(Exit hastily, not perceiving Rud. who enters.) 

Rud. A letter in her hand, and in such haste. 
Some secret agent here from Falkenstein ! 
It must be so. [Exit.) 

Scene 3. — A gloomy apartment. — Orra and Rudigere. 

Rud. In aught 
But in the company of human kind, 
Thou shalt be gratified. Thy lofty mind 
For higher super-human fellowship, 
If such there be, may now prepare its strength. 

Or. Art thou a man 1 And bearest thou in thy breast 
The feelings of a man ? It cannot be ! 

Rud. Yes, madam ; in my breast I bear too keenly 
The feelings of a man most wretched : 
A scorned, rejected man. Make me less miserable ; 
Give me thy solemn promise to be mine. 
That is the price, thou haughty, scornful maid, 
That will redeem thee from the hour of terror. 

Or. Which never shall be paid. 

Rud. Bethink thee well what flesh and blood can bear : 
The hour is near at hand. Thou deign'st no answer. 
Well, reap the fruits of thine unconquered pride. {Exit.) 

35 



410 young lady's reader. 

Or. I am alone. That closing door divides me 
From every being owning nature's life. 
And shall I be constrained to hold communion 
With that which it owns not ? O that my mind 
Could raise its thoughts in strong and steady fervor 
To him, the Lord of all existing things, 
Beneath whose mighty rule angels and spirits, 
Hosts of the earth, with the departed dead 
In their dark state of mystery, alike 
Subjected are ! And I will strongly do it. 
Ah ! would I could ! Some hidden powerful hindrance 
Doth hold me back and mars all thought. 
Dread intercourse ! 

O, if it look on me with its dead eyes ! 
If it should move its locked unearthly lips, 
And utterance give to the grave's hollow sounds ! 
If it stretch forth its cold and bony grasp — 
O horror, horror ! 

that beneath these planks of senseless matter, 

1 could as senseless be ! O open and receive me, 
Ye happy things of still and lifeless being, 
That to the awful steps which tread upon ye 
Unconscious are! (Enter Cathrina behind her.) 
Who 's there 1 Is 't any thing \ 

Cath. 'T is I, my dearest lady ; 'tis Cathrina. 

Or. How kind! such blessed kindness ! keep thou by me. 
I needs must weep to think thou art so kind 
In mine extremity. Where wert thou hid ? 

Cath. In that small closet, since the supper-hour, 
I've been concealed. For, searching round the chamber, 
I found its door and entered. Fear not now, 
I will not leave thee till the break of day. 

Or. Heaven bless thee for it ! Till the break of day ! 
If but this night were passed, I have good hope 
That noble Theobold will soon be here 
For my deliv'rance. 

Cath. Wherefore think'st thou so 1 

Or. A stranger, when thou left'st me on the ramparts, 
Gave me a letter, which I quickly opened, 
As soon as I, methought, had gained my room 
In privacy ; but close behind me came 
That demon, Rudigere, and snatching at it, 
Forced me to cast it to the flames, from which, 
I struggled with him still, he could not save it. 



TRAGEDY. 411 

Cath. You have not read it then ? 

Or. No, but the seal was Theobold's, 
And I could swear ere long he will be here 
To free me from this thraldom. 
Has it not entered on the midnight watch ? 

Cath. (Looking at the hour glass.) There is not much to run, 
And watching it, it seemeth slow. 
I'll tell thee some old tale, and ere I've finished, 
The midnight watch is gone. Sit down, 1 pray ! 
What story shall I tell thee ? 

Or. Something thyself has known, 
Touching the awful intercourse which spirits 
With mortal man have held at this dread hour. 

Cath. (Shewing the glass.) A better story I will tell thee now. 
The midnight watch is past. 

Or. Ha ! let me see. 

Cath. There's not one sand to run. 

Or. But it is barely past. 

Cath. 'T is more than past, for I did set it later 
Than the hour to be assuredly gone. 

Or. Then it is gone, indeed: 0, heaven be praised ! 
The fearful gloom gone by ! 

Cath. Thou art far spent, I'll run to my apartment 
And fetch some cordial drops, that will revive thee. 
I'll soon return. (Exit, by concealed door.) 

Or. I'll follow her. (Strives to open the door.) 
'Tis fast : it will not open. (Horn heard without.) 
Despair will give me strength : where is the door ? 
Mine eyes are dark ; I cannot find it now. 
O, God ! protect me in this awful pass ! 
There's nothing, yet I felt a chilling hand 
Upon my shoulder pressed. With opened eyes, 
And ears intent, I'll stand. Better it is 
Thus to abide the awful visitation, 
That cower in blinded horror, strained intensely 
With every beating of my goaded heart. 
The icy scalp of fear is on my head — 
The life stirs in my hair : it is a sense 
That tells the nearing of unearthly steps, 
Albeit my ringing ears no sounds distinguish. 
(A door bursts open, and the form of a huntsman clothed in 

black, a horn in his hand, enters. She utters a shriek, and 

falls senseless.) 



412 young lady's reader. 

Theo. [Running to her.) No semblance, but real fear ! 
Orra ! oh Orra ! Knowest thou not my voice ? 
Thy knight, thy champion, the devoted Theobold ? 
Open thine eyes and look upon my face : 
I am no fearful waker from the grave : 
Dost thou not feel 1 'T is the warm touch of life. 
What a pale countenance of ghastly strength, 
By horror changed ! 0, idiot that I was 
To hazard this ! — The villain hath deceived me ! 
My letter she hath ne'er received. [Enter Frank.) 

Frank. What is the matter 1 What strange turn is this ? 

Theo. She moves — she moves ! rouse thee, my gentle Orra. 
'T is no 6trange voice that calls thee : 't is thy friend. 

Frank. She knows thee not, but gives a stifled groan, 
And sinks again in stupor. 
Make no more fruitless lamentation here, 
But bear her hence : the cool and open air 
May soon restore her. Let us, while we may, 
Occasion seize, lest we should be surprised. 

{Exeunt, carrying Orra!) 

Act 5. — Scene 1. — The great hall of the castle. Enter 
Hughobert, Eleanora, Glottenbal, Urston, Maurice. 

Hugh. Is he secured ? 

Vassal. He is my lord : behold! (pointing to Rudigere.) 

Hugh. Black, artful traitor ! Of a sacred trust, 
Blindly reposed in thee, the base betrayer 
For wicked ends ; full well upon the ground 
May'st thou decline those darkly frowning eyes, 
And gnaw thy lips in shame. 

Rud. And rests no shame with him whose easy faith 
Entrusts a man improved ; or having proved him, 
Lets a poor hireling's unsupported testimony, 
Shake the firm confidence of many years 1 

Hugh. Here the accuser stands ; confront him boldly, 
And spare him not. 

Maur. Deny it if thou can'st. Thy brazen front, 
All brazen as it is, denies it not. 

Rud. Fool ! that of prying curiosity 
And av'rice art compounded ! I, in truth, 
Did give to thee a counterfeited treasure, 
To bribe thee to a counterfeited trust. 
Meet recompense ! Ha, ha ! Maintain thy tale, 
For I deny it not. 



TRAGEDY. 413 

Hugh. Sir Rudigere, thou dost, I must confess, 
Out face him well. But call the lady Orra ; 
If towards her thou hast thyself comported 
In honesty, she will declare it freely. 
{1st Attend.) Would that we could ; last night i' the midnight 

watch, 
She disappeared ; but whether man or devil 
Hath borne her hence, in truth we cannot tell. 

Hugh. 0, both ! Fiend, murderer, produce her instantly : 
Dead or alive, produce thy hapless charge. 

Rud. Restrain your rage, my lord : I would right gladly 
Obey you, were it possible ; the place, 
And the mysterious means of her retreat, 
Are both to me unknown. 

Hugh. Straight bind the traitor to that place, 
And let each sturdy varlet of your train, 

Inflict correction on him. {They struggle to bind Rud., but 
seizing his dagger, he stabs himself.) 

TJrst. Rash, daring, thoughtless wretch ! dost thou so close 
A wicked life in hardy desperation ? 

Rud. Priest, spare thy words ! I add not to my sins 
That of presumption, in pretending now 
To offer up to heaven the forced repentance 
Of some short moments, for a life of crimes. 

Elea. Oh, Rudigero ! thou art a dying man, 
And we will speak to thee without upbraiding. 
Confess, I do entreat thee, ere thou goest 
To thy most awful change, and leave us not 
In this our horrible uncertainty. 
Is Orra here concealed 1 

Rud. Lady, with these words of gentle meekness, 
My heart is changed ; and that you may perceive 
How greatly changed, let Glottenbal approach me. 
Spent I am now, and can but faintly speak 
Even unto him, in token of forgiveness. 
I'll tell what ye desire. 

Elea. Thank heaven ! Go to him, my boy. {Glot. goes to 
Rud., who taking a dagger from his bosom, strikes him 
on the neck and expires.) 

Hugh. Ha ! has he wounded thee, my son ? 

Glot. A scratch. 'T is nothing more. 
He had not strength to thrust it at my throat. 

Hugh. Thank God ! he had not. 
35* 



414 young lady's reader. 

A ghastly smile of fell malignity 

On his distorted face death has arrested. 

{Enter a Soldier in haste.) 

Sold. 0, 1 have heard a voice, a dismal voice. 

Elea. What voice 1 

Sold. The lady Orra's 

Elea. Where ! lead us to the place. 

Hugh. Haste, lead the way. (Exeunt all but Glottenbal.) 

Glot. I am sick, and strangely dizzy grows my head, 
And pains shoot from my wound. It is a scratch, 
But from a devil's fang. 

Scene £. — The Forest near a cavern. Enter FranJco, Hugho- 
bert, Hartmann, Eleanora, Alice, and TJrston. 

Elea. (To Franho.) She is not well, thou sayest, and from 
her swoon 
Imperfectly recovered. 

Frank. When I left her, 
She so appeared. — But enter not, I pray, 
Till I give notice. (A shriek heard.) 

Omnes. What shriek is that 

Al. 'T is Orra's voice. 

Elea. No, no ! It cannot be ! It is some wretch, 
In maniac's fetters bound. 

Hart. The horrid thoughts that burst into my mind ! 
Forbid it, righteous heaven ! 

(Runs into the cave, but Theobold rushes out.) 

Theo. Hold, hold ! no entry here but o'er my corse. 

Hart. Dost thou not know thy friends 1 

Theo. Ha ! thou, my Hartmann ! Art thou come to me ? 

Hart. Yes, I am come. She is not dead ! 

Theo. O, no ! it is not death ! 

Hart. What meanest thou 1 Is she well ? 

Theo. Her body is. 

Hart. And not her mind ? — 0, direst wreck of all ! 
That noble mind! — But 'tis some passing seizure, 
Some powerful movement of a transient nature ; 
It is not madness ! 

Theo. (Bursting into tears.) 'T is heaven's infliction, 
Let us call it so ; give it no other name. 

Elea. Nay, do not thus despair : when she beholds us 
She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing, 
Be gradually restored. 



TRA.GEDY. 415 

Al. Let me go to her. 

Theo, Nay, I will lead her forth. (He leads out Orra, who 
appears with disordered dress and countenance.) 

Or. (Shrinking';) Come back ! The fierce and fiery light ! 

Theo. Shrink not, dear love ! it is the light of day. 

Or. Have cocks crowed yet ? 

Theo. Yes ; twice I've heard already 
Their matin sound. Look up to the blue sky ; 
Is it not daylight there? And these green boughs 
Are fresh and fragrant round thee ! every sense 
Tells thee it is the cheerful, early day. 

Or. Aye, so it is ; day takes his daily turn, 
Rising between the gulfy dells of night, 
Like whitened billows on a gloomy sea. 
They will not come again. — Hark ! — Aye ! Hark ! 
They are all there : I hear their hollow sound 
Full many a fathom down. 

Theo. Be still, poor troubled soul ! they'll ne'er return ; 
They are forever gone ; and thy own friends — 
Thy living, loving friends, still by thy side, 
To speak to thee and cheer thee. See, my Orra ! 
They are beside thee now; dost thou not know them? 

Or. No, no ! athwart the wav'ring garish light, 
Things move and seem to be, and yet are nothing. 

Elea. My gentle Orra ! Hast thou then forgot me ? 
Dost thou not know my voice ? 

Or. 'T is like an old tune to my ear returned. 
For there be those who sit in cheerful halls, 
And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant sounds ; 
And once I lived with such ; some years gone by ; 
I wot not now how long. 

Hugh. Keen words that rend my heart. 
Thou had'st a home, 
And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection. 

Elea. Ah, Orra ! do not look upon us thus ! 
These are the voices of thy loving friends, 
That speak to thee ; this is a friendly hand 
That presses thine. (Takes Orra's hand.) 

Or. Take it away ! It was the swathed dead : 
I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch. 
Come not again ; I'm strong and terrible now : 
Mine eyes have looked upon all dreadful things ; 
And when the earth yawns, and the hell blast sounds, 



416 young lady's reader. 

I'll 'bide the trooping of unearthly steps,. 
With stiff-clenched, terrible strength. 

Hugh. A murderer is a guiltless wretch to me. 

Hart. Be patient ; 't is a momentary pitch ; 
Let me encounter it. (Fixing his eyes on her.) 

Or. Take off from me thy strangely fastened eye : 
I may not look upon thee — yet I must. 
Unfix thy baleful glance : art thou a snake ? 
Something of horrid power within thee dwells. 
Still, still that powerful eye doth suck me in, 
Like a dark eddy to its wheeling core. 
Spare me ! O, spare me ! being of strange power, 
And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay. (Kneeling.) 

Elea. Alas, the piteous sight ! to see her thus ; 
The noble, gen'rous, playful, stately Orra ! 

Theo. (To Hartmann.) Out on thy hateful guile ! 
Think'st thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched state, 
The slightest shadow of a base control 1 
No, rise thou stately flower with rude blasts rent ; 
As honored art thou with thy broken stem, 
And leaflets strewed, as in thy summer's pride. 
I've seen thee worshiped like a regal dame, 
With every studied form of marked devotion, 
Whilst I, in distant silence, scarcely proffered 
Ev'n a plain soldier's courtesy ; but now, 
No liege man to his crowned mistress sworn, 
Bound and devoted is as I to thee ; 
And he who offers to thy altered state 
The slightest seeming of diminished rev'rence, 
Must in my blood — (to Hart.) — 0, pardon me, my friend ! 
Thou'st wrung my heart. 

Hart. Nay, do thou pardon me : I am to blame. 
Thy noble heart shall not again be wrung. 
But what can now be done ? O'er such wild ravings 
There must be some control. 

Theo. O, none ! none ! none, but gentle sympathy, 
And watchfulness of love. My noble Orra ! 
Wander where'er thou wilt ; thy vagrant steps 
Shall followed be by one who shall not weary, 
Nor e'er detach him from his hopeless task : 
Bound to thee now as fairest, gentlest beauty 
Could ne'er have bound him. 

Al. See how she gazes on him with a look 



TRAGEDY. 417 

Subsiding gradually to softer sadness ; 
Half saying that she knows him. 

Elea. There is a kindness in her changing eye. 
Yes, Orra, 'tis the valiant Theobold, 
Thy knight and champion, whom thou gazest on. 

Or. The brave are like the brave ; so should it be : 
He was a goodly man — a noble knight. 
What is thy name, young soldier 1 — Woe is me ! 
For prayers of grace are said o'er dying men, 
Yet they have laid thy clay in unblest earth — 
Shame ! shame ! not with the stilled and holy dead. 
Oh, masses shall be said for thy repose. 

Elea. 'T is not the dead, 't is Theobold himself, 
Alive and well, who standeth by thy side. 

Or. Where, where? All dreadful things are near me, 
round me ; 
Let him begone ! The place is horrible ! 
The hounds now yell below i' the center gulf; 
They may not rise again till solemn bells 
Have given the stroke chat severs night from morn. 

Elea. O, rave not thus ! Dost thou not know us, Orra ? 

Or. I'll know you better in your winding sheets, 
When the moon shines upon ye ! 

Theo. Give o'er, my friends ; you see it is in vain ; 
Her mind within itself holds a dark world 
Of dismal phantasies and horrid. forms ! 
Contend with her no more. 

{Enter Attendant, and whispers to Eleanora. ) 

Hugh. What did'st thou whisper there ? 
How is my son ? What look is that thou wear'st 1 
He is not dead ! Thou dost not speak ! 0, God ! 
I have no son. I am bereft ! But this ! 
But only him ! Heaven's vengeance deals the stroke ; 
I had no other hope. 
Could this — could this alone atone my crime ? 

Urst. Perhaps his life had blasted more thy hopes 
Than ev'n his grievous end. 

Hugh. He was not all a father's heart could wish, 
But oh, he was my son ! — my only son : 
My child — the thing that from his cradle grew, 
And was before me still. Oh, oh ! 

Or. Ha, dost thou groan, old man 1 Art thou in trouble ? 
Out on it ! though they lay him in the mold, 



418 young lady's reader. 

He's near thee still. I'll tell thee how it is : 

The living and the dead, together are 

In horrid neighborship. 'T is but thin vapor, 

Floating around thee, makes the wav'ring bound. 

See ! from all points they come ; earth casts them up ! 

In grave-clothes swathed are those but new in death ; 

And there be some half bone, half cased in shreds 

Of that which flesh hath been ; and there be some 

With wickered ribs, through which the darkness scowls. 

Back, back! They close upon us. Oh, the void 

Of hollow, unbailed sockets staring grimly, 

Andlipless jaws, that move and clatter round us, 

In mockery of speech. Back, back, I say! 

Back, back. (Catching Theobold with frantic terror.) 



COMEDY. 



AS YOU LIKE IT.— Shakspeare. 



Persons Represented. 



Doke. 

Frederick, brother to the Duke, and 

Usurper. 
Amiens, ) Lords attending upon the 
Jaques, 5 Duke in his banishment. 
Le Beao, a Courtier attending upon 

Frederick. 
Oliver, eldest so7i to Sir Rowland de 

Boys. 
Jaques, ) younger brothers to 
Orlando, $ Oliver. 



Adam, an old servant of Sir Roicland 

de Boys. 
Touchstone, a Cloion. 
Corin, a Shepherd. 
Charles, wrestler to the usurping 

Duke Frederick. 
Dennis, servant to Oliver. 
Rosalind, daughter to the Duke. 
Celia, daughter to Frederick. 
Lords belonging to the tioo Dukes; 
with pages, foresters, attendants, $fc. 



Scene — Lies, first, near Oliver's house; and, afterwards, partly in the Duke's 
court, and partly in the forest of Arden. 

Act 1. — Scene 1. — Oliver's Orchard. Enter Orlando and 
Adam. 

Orlando. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion 
bequeathed me : — By will, but a poor thousand crowns ; and, 
as thou say'st, charged my brother on his blessing, to breed me 
well : and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he 



COMEDY. 419 

keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit : for 
my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more 
properly, stays me here at home, unkept ; for, call you that 
keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the 
stalling an ox ; his horses are bred better ; for, besides that 
they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, 
and to that end, riders dearly hired : but I, his brother, gain 
nothing under him but growth ; for the which his animals on 
his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this 
nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something that na- 
ture gave me, his countenance seems to take from me : he lets 
me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as 
much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. 
This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, 
which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servi- 
tude : I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise 
remedy how to avoid it. 

(Enter Oliver.} 
Adam. Yonder comes my master, your brother. 
Orla. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will 
shake me up. 

Oli. Now, sir ! what make you here ? 
Orla. Nothing : I am not taught to make any thing. 
OIL What mar you then, sir ? 

Orla. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God 
made, a poor, unworthy brother of yours, with idleness. 

OIL Marry, sir, be better employed, and be nought awhile. 
Orla. Shall 1 keep your hogs, and eat husks with them ? 
What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should come to such 
penury ? 

Oli. Know you where you are, sir ? 
Orla. 0, sir, very well ; here in your orchard. 
Oli. Know you before whom, sir ? 

Orla. Ay, better than he I am before, knows me. I know 
you are my eldest brother ; and, in the gentle condition of 
blood, you should so know me : the courtesy of nations allows 
you my better, in that you are the first-born ; but the same tra- 
dition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers be- 
twixt us ; I have as much of my father in me as you ; albeit 
I confess your coming before me is nearer to his reverence. 
Oli. What, boy ! 

Orla. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this. 
Oli. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain ? 



420 young lady's reader. 

Orla. I am no villain : I am the youngest son of sir Row- 
land de Boys ; he was my father ; and he is thrice a villian, 
that says such a father begot villains : wert thou not my brother, 
I would not take this hand from thy throat 'till this other had 
pulled out thy tongue for saying so ; thou hast railed on thyself. 

Adam. Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's re- 
membrance, be at accord. 

OIL Let me go, I say. 

Orla. I will not, 'till I please ; you shall hear me. My 
father charged you in his will to give me good education : you 
have trained me up like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from 
me all gentleman-like qualities : the spirit of my father grows 
strong in me, and I will no longer endure it : therefore allow 
me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the 
poor allottery my father left me by testament ; with that I will 
go buy my fortunes. 

OIL And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is spent? 
Well, sir, get you in : I will not long be troubled with you : 
you shall have some part of your will ; I pray you, leave me. 

Orla. I will no further offend you than becomes me for my 
good. 

OIL Get you with him, you old dog. 

Adam. Is old dog my reward ? Most true, I have lost my 
teeth in your service. God be with my old master, he would 
not have spoke such a word. (Exeunt Orlando and Adam.) 

OH. Is it even so 1 begin you to grow upon me ? I will 
physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. 
Holla, Dennis ! 

(Enter Dennis.) 

Den. "Calls your worship ? 

OIL Was not Charles, the duke's wrestler, here to speak 
me? 

Den. So please, he is here at the door, and importunes 
access to you. 

OIL Call him in. (Exit Dennis.) 'T will be a good way ; 
and to-morrow the wrestling is. 

{Enter Charles.) 

Cha. Good-morrow to your worship. 

OIL Good monsieur Charles ! — what's the new news at the 
new court ? 

Cha. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news : 
that is, the old duke is banished by his younger brother, the 
new duke ; and three or four loving lords have put themselves 



COMEDY. 421 

into voluntary exile with him, whose land and revenues enrich 
the new duke, therefore he gives them good leave to wander. 

Oli. Can you tell if Rosalind, the old duke's daughter, be 
banished with her father ? 

Cha. O, no ; for the new duke's daughter, her cousin, so 
loves her, — being ever from their cradles bred together, — that 
she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind 
her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle 
than his own daughter ; and never two ladies loved as they do. 

Oli. Where will the old duke live ? 

Cha. They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a 
many merry men with him ; and there they live like the old 
Robin Hood of England : they say, many young gentlemen 
flock to him every day ; and fleet the time carelessly, as they 
did in the golden world. 

Oli. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new duke ? 

Cha. Marry, do I, sir, and I come to acquaint you with a 
matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your 
younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in dis- 
guised against me, to try a fall : to-morrow, sir, I wrestle for 
my credit ; and he that escapes me without some broken limb, 
shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender ; 
and, for your love, I would be loth to foil him, as I must, for 
mine own honor, if he come in : therefore, out of my love to 
you, I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you 
might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace 
well as he shall run into; in that it is a thing of his own 
search, and altogether against my will. 

Oli. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou 
shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of 
my brother's purpose herein, and have by under-hand means, 
labored to dissuade him from it ; but he is resolute. I'll tell 
thee, Charles — it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; 
full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good 
parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me, his natural 
brother; therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst 
break his neck, as his finger ; and thou wert best look to't ; for 
if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily 
grace himself on thee, he will practice against thee by poison ; 
entrap thee by some treacherous device ; and never leave thee, 
till he hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other: for, 
I assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one 
so young and so villainous, this day living. I speak it but 

36 



422 young lady's reader. 

brotherly of him ; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, 
I must blush, and weep, and thou must look pale, and wonder. 

Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you : if he come 
to-morrow, I'll give him his payment ; if ever he go alone 
again, I'll never wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep 
your worship ! (Exit.) 

Oli. Farewell, good Charles. — Now will I stir this game- 
ster: I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I 
know not why, hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle ; 
never schooled, and yet learned ; full of noble device ; of all 
sorts enchantingly beloved ; and, indeed, so much in the heart 
of the world, and especially of my own people, who best 
know him, that 1 am altogether misprised : but it shall not be 
so long ; this wrestler shall clear all : nothing remains, but 
that I kindle the boy thither, which now I'll go about. {Exit.) 

Scene 2. — An open walk before the Duke's palace. Enter Ro- 
salind and Celia. 

Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. 

Ros. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; 
and would you yet I were merrier ? Unless you could teach 
me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to 
remember any extraordinary pleasure. 

Cel. Herein, I see, thou lovest me not with the full weight 
that I love thee : if my uncle, thy banished father, had banish- 
ed thy uncle, the duke, my father, so thou had'st been still with 
me, I could have taught ray love to take thy father for mine ; 
so would'st thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so right- 
eously tempered as mine is to thee. 

Ros. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to re- 
joice in yours. 

Cel. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is 
like to have ; and truly, when he dies, thou shalt be his heir : 
for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will 
render thee again in affection ; by mine honor, I will ; and 
when I break that oath, let me turn monster : therefore my 
sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry. 

Ros. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. Let 
me see ; what think you of falling in love ? 

Cel. Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make sport withal : but love 
no man in good earnest ; nor no further in sport neither, than 
with safety of a pure blush thou may'st in honor come off 
again. 



COMEDY. 423 

Ros. What shall be our sport then ? 

Cel. Let us sit and mock the good house-wife, fortune, 
from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed 
equally. 

Ros. I would we could do so ; for her benefits are mightily 
misplaced : and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake 
in her gifts to women. 

Cel. 'T is true; for those that she makes fair, she scarce 
makes honest ; and those that she makes honest, she makes 
very ill-favoredly. 

Ros. Nay, now thou goest from fortune's office to nature's : 
fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of 
nature. 

(Enter Touchstone, a clown.) 

Cel. No ! When nature hath made a fair creature, may she 
not by fortune, fall into the fire ? — Though nature hath given us 
wit to flout at fortune, hath not fortune sent in this fool to cut 
off the argument? 

Ros. Indeed there is fortune too hard for nature, when for- 
tune makes nature's natural the cutter off of nature's wit . 

Cel. Peradventure this is not fortune's work neither, but 
nature's ; who perceiving our natural wits too dull to reason of 
such goddesses, hath sent this natural for our whetstone: for 
always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. — 
How now, wit ? whither wander you ? 

Touch. Mistress, you must come away to your father. 

Cel. Were you made the messenger ? 

Touch. No, by mine honor ; but I was bid to come for you. 

Ros. Where learned you that oath, fool ? 

Touch. Of a certain knight, that swore by his honor they 
were good pancakes, and swore by his honor the mustard was 
naught: now I'll stand to it, the pancakes were naught, and 
the mustard was good ; and yet was the knight forsworn. 

Cel. How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowl- 
edge? 

Ros. Ay, marry ; now unmuzzle your wisdom. 

Touch. Stand you both forth now ; stroke your chins, and 
swear by your beards that I am a knave. 

Cel. By our beards, if we had them, thou art. 

Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were : but if you 
swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn ; no more was 
this knight, swearing by his honor, for he never had any ; or if 



^■■■a 



424 young lady's reader. 

he had, he had sworn it away, before ever he saw those pan- 
cakes, or that mustard. 

Cel. Pr'ythee, who is it that thou meanest ? 

Touch. One that old Frederick, your father, loves. 

Cel. My father's love is enough to honor him : enough ! 
speak no more of him ; you'll be whipped for taxation, one of 
these days. 

Touch. The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what 
wise men do foolishly. 

Cel. By my troth, thou say'st true ; for since the little wit 
that fools have, was silenced, the little foolery that wise men 
have, makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau. 
{Enter Le Beau.) 

Ros. With his mouth full of news. 

Cel. Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. 

Ros. Then shall we be news crammed. 

Cel. All the better ; we shall be the more marketable. Bon 
jour, Monsieur Le Beau ; what's the news 1 

Le Beau. Fair princess, you have lost much good sport. 

Cel. Sport ! of what color 1 

Le Beau. What color, madam ? How shall I answer you 1 

Ros. As wit and fortune will. 

Touch. Or as the destinies decree. 

Cel. Well said : that was laid on with a trowel. 

Le Beau. I would have told you of good wrestling, which 
you have lost the sight of. 

Ros. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. 

Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning, and if it please 
your ladyships, you may see the end ; for the best is yet to do ; 
and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it. 

Cel. Well, — the beginning, that is dead and buried. 

Le Beau. There comes an old man, and his three sons, 

Cel. I could match this beginning with an old tale. 

Le Beau. Three proper young men, of excellent growth 
and presence ; 

Ros. With bills on their necks, — Be it known unto all men 
by these presents, 

Le Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, 
the duke's wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, 
and broke three of his ribs, that there is little hope of life in 
him : so he served the second, and so the third : Yonder they 
lie ; the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole 
over them, that all the beholders take his part with weeping. 



COMEDY. 425 

Ros. Alas ! 

Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have 
lost ? 

Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of. 

Touch. Thus men grow wiser every day ! it is the first 
time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. 

Cel. Or I, I promise thee. 

Ros. But is there any else longs to see this broken music 
in his sides ? is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking ? — 
Shall we see this wrestling, cousin ? 

Le Beau. You must, if you stay here : for here is the place 
appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it. 

Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming ; Let us now stay and 
see it. 

Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Orlando, Charles, 
and Attendants. 

Duke F. Come on ; since the youth will not be entreated, 
his own peril on his forwardness. 

Ros. Is yonder the man ? 

Le Beau. Even he, madam. 

Cel. Alas, he is too young : yet he looks successfully. 

Duke F. How now, daughter and cousin 1 are you crept 
hither to see the wrestling? 

Ros. Ay, my liege : so please you give us leave. 

Duke F. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you, 
there is such odds in the men : in pity of the challenger's youth, 
I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated : speak 
to him, ladies ; see if you can move him. 

Cel. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau. 

Duke F. Do so ; I'll not be by. [Duke F. goes apart.) 

Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call for 
you. 

Orl. I attend them, with all respect and duty. 

Ros. Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrest- 
ler ? 

Orl. No, fair princess ; he is the general challenger : I come 
but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth. 

Cel. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your 
years : you have seen cruel proof of this man's strength : if 
you saw yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your 
judgment, the fear of your adventure would counsel you to a 
more equal enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to 
embrace your own safety, and give over this attempt. 

36* 



426 youjsg lady's reader. 

Ros. Do, young sir ; your reputation shall not therefore be 
misprised : we will make it our suit to the duke, that the wrest- 
ling might not go forward. 

Orl. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts ; 
wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny so fair and excellent 
ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go 
with me to my trial : wherein, if I be foiled, there is but one 
shamed that was never gracious ; if killed, but one dead that is 
willing to be so ; I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have 
none to lament me ; the world no injury, for in it I have no- 
thing ; only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better 
supplied when I have made it empty. 

Ros. The little strength that I have, I would it were with 
you. 

Cel. And mine, to eke out hers. 

Ros. Fare you well. 'Pray heaven, I be deceived in you ! 

Cel. Your heart's desires be with you. 

Cha. Come, where is this young gallant, that is so desirous 
to lie with his mother earth ? 

Orl. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest 
working. 

Duke F. You shall try but one fall. 

Cha. No, I warrant your grace ; you shall not entreat him 
to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first. 

Orl. You mean to mock me after ; you should not have 
mocked me before : but come your ways. 

Ros. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man ! 

Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by 
the leg. (Cha. and Orl. wrestle.) 

Ros. excellent young man ! 

Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who 
should down. (Cha. is thrown. Shout.) 

Duke F. No more, no more. 

Orl. Yes, I beseech your grace ; I am not yet well breathed. 

Duke F. How dost thou, Charles ? 

Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord. 

Duke F. Bear him away. ( Charles is borne out.) "What 
is thy name, young man 1 

Orl. Orlando, my liege ; the youngest son of Sir Rowland 
de Boys. 

Duke F. I would thou had been son to some man else. 
The world esteem'd thy father honorable, 
But I did find him still mine enemy : 



COMEDY. 427 

Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed, 
Hadst thou descended from another house. 
But fare thee well ; thou art a gallant youth ; 
I would thou hadst told me of another father. 

(Exeunt Duke Fred. Train, and Le Beau.) 

Cel. Were I my father, coz, would I do this ? 

Orl. I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son, 
His youngest son ; — and would not change that calling, 
To be adopted heir to Frederick. 

Ros. My father lov'd Sir Rowland as his soul, 
And all the world was of my father's mind : 
Had I before known this young man his son, 
I should have given him tears unto entreaties, 
Ere he should thus have ventur'd. 

Cel. Gentle cousin, 
Let us go thank him, and encourage him : 
My father's rough and envious disposition 
Sticks me at heart. — Sir, you have well deserved : 
If you do keep your promises in love 
But justly, as you have exceeded promise, 
Your mistress shall be happy. 

Ros. Gentleman, (Giving him a chain from her neck.) 

Wear this for me ; one out of suits with fortune ; 
That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. — 
Shall we go, coz. 

Cel. Ay : — fare you well, fair gentleman. 

Orl. Can I not say, I thank you ? my better parts 
Are all thrown down ; and that which here stands up, 
Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. 

Ros. He calls us back : my pride fell with my fortunes : 
I'll ask him what he would : — did you call, sir ? — 
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
More than your enemies. 

Cel. Will you go, coz 1 

Ros. Have with you : — fare you well. 

(Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.) 

Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue ? 
I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference. 

(Re-enter Le Beau.) 
O poor Orlando ! thou art overthrown ; 
Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee. 

Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you 
To leave this place : albeit you have deserv'd 



428 voung lady's reader. 

High commendation, true applause, and love ; 
Yet such is now the duke's condition, 
That he misconstrues all that you have done ; 
The duke is humorous ; what he is, indeed, 
More suits you to conceive, than me to speak of. 

Orl. I thank you, sir ; and, 'pray you, tell me this ; 
Which of the two was daughter of the duke, 
That here was at the wrestling? 

Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners ; 
But yet, indeed, the shorter is his daughter : 
The other is daughter to the banish'd duke, 
And here detain'd by her usurping uncle, 
To keep his daughter company ; whose loves 
Are dearer than the natural bond of sister. 
But I can tell you, that of late this duke 
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece ; 
Grounded upon no other argument, 
But that the people praise her for her virtues, 
And pity her for her good father's sake ; 
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady 
Will suddenly break forth. — Sir, fare you well ; 
Hereafter, in a better world than this, 
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you. 

Orl. I rest much bounden to you : fare you well ; 

{Exit Le Beau.) 
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother ; 
From tyrant duke, unto a tyrant brother : — ■ 
But heavenly Rosalind ! [Exit.) 

Scene 3. — A Room in the palace. — Enter Celia and Rosalind. 

Cel. Why, cousin ; why, Rosalind ; — cupid, have mercy ! 
Not a word ! 

Ros. Not one to throw at a dog, 

Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon 
curs ; throw some of them at me ; come, lame me with reasons. 

Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up ; when the one 
should be lamed with reasons, and the other mad without any. 

Cel. But is all this for your father ? 

Ros. No, some of it for my father's child. 0, how full of 
briars is this working-day world ! 

Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday 
foolery ; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petti- 
coats will catch them. 



COMEDY. 429 

Ros. I could shake them off my coat ; these burs are in 
my heart, 

Cel. Hem them away. 

Ros. I would try : if I could cry hem, and have him. 

Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. 

Ros. 0, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself. 

Cel. 0, a good wish upon you ! But, turning these jests out 
of service, let us talk in good earnest : is it possible, on such a 
sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Row- 
land's youngest son 1 

Ros. The duke my father lov'd his father dearly. 

Cel. Doth it therefore ensue, that you should love his son 
dearly ? By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my fath- 
er hated his father dearly ; yet I hate not Orlando. 

Ros. No, 'faith, hate him not, for my sake. 

Cel. Why should I not 1 doth he not deserve well ? 

Ros. Let me love him for that ; and do you love him, be- 
cause I do : — look, here comes the duke. 

Cel. With his eye full of anger. 

(Enter Duke Frederick with Lords.) 

Duke F. Mistress, despatch you with your safest haste, 
And get you from our court. 

Ros. Me, uncle ? 

Duke F. You, cousin ; 
Within these ten days, if that thou be'st found 
So near our public court as twenty miles, 
Thou diest for it. 

Ros. I do beseech your grace, 
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me ; 
If with myself I hold intelligence, 
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires ; 
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic, 
(As I do trust I am not,) then, dear uncle, 
Never so much as in a thought unborn, 
Did I offend your highness. 

Duke F. Thus do all traitors ; 
If their purgation did consist in words, 
They are innocent as grace itself: — 
Let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not. 

Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor ; 
Tell me, whereon the likelihood depends. 

Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter, there's enough. 

Ros. So was I, when your highness took his dukedom ; 



430 young lady's reader. 

So was I, when your highness banish'd him : 
Treason is not inherited, my lord : 
Or, if we did derive it from our friends, 
What's that to me 1 my father was no traitor : 
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much, 
To think my poverty is treacherous. 

Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. 

Duke F. Ay, Celia ; we stay'd her for your sake, 
Else had she with her father rang'd along. 

Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay, 
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse ; 
I was too young that time to value her, 
But now I know her ; if she be a traitor, 
Why so am I ; we still have slept together, 
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together : 
And wheresoe'r we went, like Juno's swans, 
Still we went coupled, and inseparable. 

Duke F. She is too subtle for thee ; and her smoothness, 
Her very silence, and her patience, 
Speak to the people, and they pity her. 
Thou art a fool : she robs thee of thy name ; 
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous, 
When she is gone : then open not thy lips ; 
Firm and irrevocable is my doom 
Which I have pass'd upon her ; she is banish'd. 

Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege : 
I cannot live out of her company. 

Duke F. You are a fool: — you, niece, provide yourself; 
If you out-stay the time, upon mine honor, 
And in the greatness of my word, you die. 

(Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords.) 

Cel. my poor Rosalind ! whither wilt thou go ? 
Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee mine. 
I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I am. 

Ros. I have more cause. 

Cel. Thou hast not, cousin ; 
Pr'ythee, be cheerful ; know'st thou not, the duke 
Hath banish'd me, his daughter ? 

Ros. That he hath not. 

Cel. No ? hath not ? Rosalind lacks then the love 
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one : 
Shall we be sunder'd ? shall we part, sweet girl 1 
No ; let my father seek another heir. 



COMEDY. 431 

Therefore, devise with me, how we may fly, 
Whither to go, and what to bear with us : 
And do not seek to take your change upon you, 
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out ; 
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, 
Say what thou cans't, I'll go along with thee. 

Ros. Why, whither shall we go ? 

Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden. 

Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us, 
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far 1 
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. 

Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire, 
And with a kind of umber smirch my face ; 
The like do you ; so shall we pass along, 
And never stir assailants. 

Ros. Were it not better, 
Because that I am more than common tall, 
That I did suit me all points like a man ? 
A gallant curtle-ax upon my thigh, 
A boar-spear in my hand ; and (in my heart 
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will,) 
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside ; 
As many other mannish cowards have, 
That do outface it with their semblances. 

Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou art a man 1 

Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page, 
And therefore, look you, call me Ganymede. 
But what will you be call'd ? 

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state ; 
No longer Celia, but Aliena. 

Ros. But, cousin, what if we essay'd to steal 
The clownish fool out of your father's court ? 
Would he not be a comfort to our travel ? 

Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me ; 
Leave me alone to woo him : let's away, 
And get our jewels and our wealth together ; 
Devise the fittest time and safest way 
To hide us from pursuit that will be made 
After my flight : now go we in content, 
To liberty and not to banishment. {Exeunt.} 

Act 2. — Scene 1. — The palace. — Enter Duke Frederick with 
Lords. 

Duke F. Can it be possible that no man saw them ? 



432 young lady's reader. 

It cannot be : some villains of my court 
Are of consent and sufferance in this. 

1st Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her. 
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber, 
Saw her a-bed : and in the morning early, 
They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress. 

9-d Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft 
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. 
Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman, 
Confesses that she secretly overheard 
Your daughter and her cousin much commend 
The parts and graces of the wrestler 
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles ; 
And she believes, wherever they are gone, 
That youth is surely in their company. 

Duke F. Send to his brother ; fetch that gallant hither ; 
If he be absent, bring his brother to me, 
I'll make him find him : do this suddenly ; 
And let not search and inquisition quail 
To bring again these foolish runaways. (Exeunt.) 

Scene 2. — Oliver's House. — Enter Orlando and Adam. 

Orl. Who's there 1 

Adam. What ! my young master 1 — O, my gentle master, 
O, my sweet master, O you memory 
Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here ? 
Why are you virtuous ? why do people love you 1 
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant ? 
Why would you be so fond to overcome 
The bony prizer of the humorous duke ? 
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. 
Know you not, master, to some kind of men 
Their graces serve them but as enemies ? 
No more do yours ; your virtues, gentle master, 
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. 
O, what a world is this, when what is comely 
Envenoms him that bears it ! 

Orl. Why, what's the matter ? 

Adam. unhappy youth, 
Come not within these doors ; within this roof 
The enemy of all your graces lives : 
Your brother — (no, no brother : yet the son — 
Yet not the son ; — I will not call him son 



COMEDY. 433 

Of him I was about to call his father,) — 

Hath heard your praises ; and this night he means 

To burn the lodging where you use to lie, 

And you within it : if he fail of that, 

He will have other means to cut you off: 

I overheard him, and his practices. 

This is no place, this house is but a butchery ; 

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 

Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go ? 

Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. 

Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food ? 
Or, with a base and boisterous sword, enforce 
A thievish living on the common road ? 
This I must do, or know not what to do : 
Yet this I will not do, do how I can ; 
I rather will subject me to the malice 
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother. 

Adam. But do not so : I have five hundred crowns, 
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father, 
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse, 
When service should in my old limbs lie lame, 
And unregarded age in corners thrown ; 
Take that : and he that doth the ravens feed, 
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, 
Be comfort to my age ! here is the gold ; 
All this I give you : let me be your servant ; 
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty. 
For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ; 
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
The means of weakness and debility ; 
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
Frosty, but kindly ; let me go with you ; 
I'll do the service of a younger man 
In all your business and necessities. 

Orl. O, good old man ; how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world, 
When service sweat for duty, not for meed ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times, 
Where none will sweat, but for promotion ; 
And having that, do choke their service up 
Even with the having : it is not so with thee. 
But, poor old man, thou prunest a rotten tree, 

37 



434 young lady's reader. 

That cannot so much as a blossom yield, 
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry : 
But come thy ways, we'll go along together ; 
And e'er we have thy youthful wages spent, 
We'll light upon some settled low content. 

Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee, 
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty : — 
From seventeen years till now, almost fourscore, 
Here lived I, but now live here no more. 
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek ; 
But at fourscore it is too late a week ; 
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better, 
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor. (Exeunt.) 

Scene 3. — The Forest of Arden. — Enter Rosalind in boy's 

clothes for Ganymede ; Celia drest like a shepherdess for Ali- 

ena ; and Touchstone, the clown. 

Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits ! 

Touch. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary. 

Ros. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, 
and cry like a woman: but I must comfort the weaker vessel, 
as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat : 
therefore, courage, good Aliena. 

Cel. 1 pray you, bear with me ; I can go no further. 

Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear 
you ; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you ; for I think 
you have no money in your purse. 

Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden. 

Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden : the more fool I ; when I 
was at home, I was in a better place ; but travelers must be 
content. 

Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone : — look you, who comes 
here ? 

Enter Corin. 

Cel. I pray you, one of you question yon man, 
If he for gold will give us any food ; 
I faint almost to death. 

Touch. Holloa ; you, clown ! 

Ros. Peace, fool : he's not thy kinsman. 

Cor. Who calls ? 

Touch. Your betters, sir. 
Cor. Else they are very wretched. 
Ros. Peace, I say : — ■ 
Good even to you, friend. 



COMEDY. 435 

Cor. And to you, gentle sir ; and to you all. 

Ros. I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love or gold 
Can in this desert place buy entertainment, 
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed : 
Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd, 
And faints for succor. 

Cor. Fair sir, I pity her, 
And wish for her sake, more than for mine own, 
My fortunes were more able to relieve her : 
But I am shepherd to another man, 
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze ; 
My master is of churlish disposition, 
And little recks to find the way to heaven 
By doing deeds of hospitality : 
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed, 
Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now, 
By reason of his absence, there is nothing 
That you will feed on : but what is, come see, 
And in my voice most welcome shall you be. 

Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture ? 

Cor. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile, 
That little cares for buying any thing. 

Ros. I pray thee, if it stands with honesty, 
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, 
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. 

Cel. And we will mend thy wages : I like this place, 
And willingly could waste my time in it. 

Cor. Assuredly, the thing is to be sold : 
Go with me : if you like, upon report, 
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life, 
I will your very faithful feeder be, 
And buy it with your gold right suddenly. (Exeunt.) 

Scene 4. — Enter Orlando and Adam. 

Adam. Dear master, I can go no further : 0, 1 die for food! 
Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind 
master. 

Orl. Why, how now, Adam ! no greater heart in thee ! live 
a little ; comfort a little ; cheer thyself a little ; if this uncouth 
forest yield any thing savage, I will either be food for it, or 
bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy 
powers. For my sake, be comfortable ; hold death awhile at the 
arm's end : I will be here with thee presently ; and if I bring thee 



436 young lady's reader. 

not something to eat, I'll give thee leave to die : but if thou di- 
est before I come, thou art a mocker of my labor. Well said ! 
thou look'st cheerly, and I'll be with thee quickly. — Yet thou 
liest in the bleak air ; come, I will bear thee to some shelter ; 
and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live any 
thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam ! (Exeunt.) 

Scene 5. — Another part of the Forest. — Enter Duke Se?iior, 
with Lords. — A table set out. 

Duke S. I think he be transformed into a beast : 
For I can no where find him like a man. 

1st Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence : 
Here was he merry, hearing of a song. 

Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical, 
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres: — 
Go seek him ; tell him I would speak with him. 
(Enter Jaques.) 

1st Lord. He saves my labor by his own approach. 

Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur ! what a life is this, 
That your poor friends must woo your company ? 
What ! you look merrily. 

Jaq. A fool, a fool ! — I met a fool i' the forest, 
A motley fool ; — a miserable varlet ! — 
As I do live by food, I met a fool, 
Who laid him down and basked him in the sun, 
And railed on lady Fortune in good terms, 
In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool. 
Good morrow, fool, quoth I ; No, sir, quoth he, 
Call me not fool, till heaven have sent me fortune : 
And then he drew a dial from his poke ; 
And looking on it with lack-luster eye, 
Says, very wisely, " It is ten o'clock : 
Thus may we see," quoth he, " how the world wags : 
'T is but an hour ago, since it was nine : 
And after an hour more, 'twill be eleven ; 
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, 
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, 
And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear, 
The motley fool thus moral on the time, 
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 
That fools should be so deep-contemplative ; 
And I did laugh, sans intermission, 
An hour by his dial. — 0, noble fool ! 
A worthy fool ! motley's the only wear. 



COMEDY. 437 

Duke S. What fool is this ? 

Jaq. O worthy fool !— one that hath been a courtier ; 
And says, if ladies be but young, and fair, 
They have the gift to know it : and in his brain, — 
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit 
After a voyage, — he hath strange places cramm'd 
With observation, the which he vents 
In mangled forms : — O, that I were a fool ! 
I am ambitious for a motley coat. 

Duke S. Thou shalt have one. 

Jaq. It is my only suit ; 
Frovided, that you weed your better judgments 
Of all opinion that grows rank in them, 
That I am wise. I must have liberty 
Withal, as large a charter as the wind, 
To blow on whom I please ; for so fools have : 
And they that are most galled with my folly, 
They most must laugh ; and why, sir, must they so ? 
The why is plain as way to parish church : 
He that a fool doth very wisely hit. 
Doth very foolishly, although he smart, 
Not to seem senseless of the bob : if not, 
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd 
Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool. 
Invest me in my motley ; give me leave 
To speak my mind, and I will through and through 
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, 
If they will patiently receive my medicine. 

Duke S. Fie on thee ! 

Jaq. But who comes here ? 

(Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn.) 

Orl. Forbear, and eat no more. 

Jaq. Why, I have eat none yet. 

Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be served. 

Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of? 

Duke S. Art thou thus bolden'd man, by thy distress ; 
Or else a rude despiser of good manners, 
That in civility thou seem'st so empty 1 

Orl. You touched my vein at first ; the thorny point 
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show 
Of smooth civility : yet I am inland bred, 
And know some nurture : but, forbear, I say ; 

37* 



438 young lady's reader. 

He dies, that touches any of this fruit, 
Till I and my affairs are answered. 

Jaq. An you will not be answered with reason, I must die. 

Duke S. What would you have ? your gentleness shall force, 
More than your force move us to gentleness. 

Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it. 

Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. 

Orl. Speak you so gently ? pardon me, I pray you : 
I thought that all things had been savage here ; 
And therefore put I on the countenance 
Of stern commandment : but whate'er you are, 
That in this desert inaccessible, 
Under the shade of melancholy boughs, 
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; 
If ever you have looked on better days, 
If ever been where bell's have knolled to church ; 
If ever sat at any good man's feast ; 
If ever from your eyelid wip'd a tear, 
And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied ; 
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be : 
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword. 

Duke S. True is it that we have seen better days ; 
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church ; 
And sat at good men's feasts ; and wiped our eyes 
Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered: 
And therefore sit you down in gentleness, 
And take upon command what help we have, 
That to your wanting may be ministered. 

Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while, 
While, like a doe, I go to find my fawn, 
And give it food. There is an old poor man, 
"Who after me hath many a weary step 
Limped in pure love : till he be first sufficed,— 
Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger,— 
I will not touch a bit. 

Duke S. Go find him out, 
And we will nothing waste till your return. 

Orl. I thank ye ; and be bless'd for your good comfort ! 

(Exit.) 

Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy : 
This wide and universal theater 
Presents more woful pageants than the scene 
Wherein we play in. 



COMEDY. 439 

(Re-enter Orlando, with Adam.) 

Duke S. "Welcome : set down your venerable burden, 
And let him feed. 

Orl. I thank you most for him. 

Adam. So had you need ; 
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. 

Duke S. Welcome, fall to ; I will not trouble you, 
As yet, to question you about your fortunes. 
If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son, — 
As you have whisper'd faithfully you were ; 
And as mine eyes doth his effigies witness 
Most truly limn'd, and living in your face, — 
Be truly welcome hither ; 1 am the duke, 
That loved your father, the residue of your fortune, 
Go to my cave and tell me. — Good old man, 
Thou art right welcome as thy master is : 
Support him by the arm. — Give me your hand, 
And let me all your fortunes understand. (Exeunt.) 

Act 3. — Scene 1. — The palace. — Enter Duke, Lords, and 

Oliver. 

Duke F. Not seen him since 1 sir, sir, that cannot be : 
But were I not the better part made mercy 
I should not seek an absent argument 
Of my revenge, thou present : but look to it ; 
Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is ; 
Seek him with candle : bring him dead or living 
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more 
To seek a living in our territory. 
Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine, 
Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands ; 
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth, 
Of what we think against thee. 

Oli. O, that your highness knew my heart in this ! 
I never loved my brother in my life. 

Duke F. More villain thou. — Well, push him out of doors ; 
And let my officers of such a nature 
Make an extent upon his house and lands : 
Do this expediently, and turn him going. (Exeunt.) 

Scene 2.— The Forest. — Enter Orlando, with a paper. 
Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love : 
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey 



440 young lady's header. 

With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, 
Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway. 
O Rosalind ! these trees shall be my books, 
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character ; 
That every eye, which in this forest looks, 
Shall see thy virtue witnessed every where. 
Run, run, Orlando ; carve on every tree, 

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. (Exit.) 

(Enter Rosalind, with a paper, and Touchstone. ) 
Ros. From the east to western Ind, 
No jewel is like Rosalind. 
Her worth, being mounted on the wind, 
Through all the world bears Rosalind. 
All the pictures, fairest limn'd 
Are but black to Rosalind. 
Let no face be kept in mind, 
But the fair of Rosalind. 
Touch, I'll rhyme you so, eight years together ; dinners, and 
suppers, and sleeping-hours excepted ; it is the right butter- 
woman's rate to market. 

Bos. Peace, you dull fool ; I found them on a tree. 
Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. 
Ros. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a 
medlar : then it will be the earliest fruit in the country : for 
you'll be rotten e'er you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue 
of the medlar. 

Touch. You have said ; but whether wisely or no, let the 
forest judge. 

(Enter Celia, with a writing.) 
Ros. Peace ! 
Here comes my sister, reading ; stand aside. 
Cel. " Why should this desert silent be ? 
For it is unpeopled ! No ; 
Tongues I'll hang on every tree, 
That shall civil sayings show. 
Some, how brief the life of man 

Runs his erring pilgrimage ; 
That the stretching of a span 
Buckles in his sum of age. 
Some, of violated vows 

'Twixt the souls of friend and friend : 
But upon the fairest boughs, 
Or at every sentence' end, 



COMEDY. 441 

Will I Rosalinda write ; 

Teaching all that read, to know 
This quintessence of every' sprite 

Heaven would in little show. 
Therefore heaven nature charged 
That one body should be filled 
With all graces wide enlarged : 

Nature presently distilled 
Helen's cheek, but not her heart ; 

Cleopatra's majesty ; 
Atalanta's belter part ; 

Sad Lucretia's modesty. 
Thus Rosalind of many parts 

By heavenly synod was devised : 
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, 

To have the touches dearest prized. 
Heaven would that she these gifts should have, 
And I to live and die her slave." 
Ros. O, most gentle Jupiter ! — what tedious homily of love 
have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried, 
" Have patience, good people !" 

Cel. Didst thou hear these verses ? 

Ros. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too ; for some of 
them had in them more feet than the verses would bear. 
Cel. That's no matter ; the feet might bear the verses. 
Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear them- 
selves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the 
verse. 

Cel. But didst thou hear, without wondering, how thy name 
should be hanged and carved upon these trees ? 

Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of wonder, before 
you came ; for look here what 1 found on a palm-tree : I was 
never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish 
rat, which I can hardly remember. 

Cel. Trow you, who hath done this ? 
Ros. Is it a man? 

Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neek : 
change you color ? 

Ros. I pr'ythee, who ? 

Cel. 0, lord, lord ! it is a hard matter for friends to meet ; 
but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so en- 
counter. 

Ros. Nay, but who is it ? 



442 young lady's reader. 

Cel. Is it possible ? 

Ros. Nay, I pr'ythee now, with most petitionary vehe- 
mence, tell me who it is. 

Cel. O, wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonder- 
ful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping ! 

Ros. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am 
caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my dispo- 
sition ? One inch of delay more is a South-sea off discovery. 
I pr'ythee, tell me, who is it? quickly, and speak apace: I 
would thou could'st stammer, that thou might'st pour this con- 
cealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow- 
mouthed bottle ; either too much at once, or none at all. I 
pr'ythee take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy 
tidings. 

Cel. So you may put a man in your belly. 

Ros. Is he of God's making 1 What manner of man ? Is 
his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard? 

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard. 

Ros. Why, God will send more, if the man will be thank- 
ful : let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not 
the knowledge of his chin. 

Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's 
heels, and your heart, both in an instant. 

Ros. Nay, but speak sad brow, and true maid. 

Cel. I faith, coz, 'tis he. 

Ros. Orlando 1 

Cel. Orlando. 

Ros. Alas the day ! what shall I do with my doublet and 
hose? What did he, when thou saw'st him 1 What said he ? 
How looked he ? Wherein went he ? What makes he here ? 
Did he ask for me ? Where remains he ? How parted he with 
thee ? And when shalt thou see him again ? Answer me in 
one word. 

Cel. You must borrow me Garagantua's mouth first : 't is 
a word too great for any mouth of this age's size : to say, aye, 
and no, to these particulars, is more than to answer in a cate- 
chism. 

Ros. But doth he know that I am in this forest in man's 
apparel ? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled ? 

Cel. It is as easy to count atomies, as to resolve the propo- 
sitions of a lover : — but take a taste of my finding him, and 
relish it with good observance. 1 found him under a tree, like 
a dropped acorn. 



COMEDY. 443 

Ros. It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops forth 
such fruit. 

Cel. Give me audience, good madam. 
Ros. Proceed. 

Cel. There lay he, stretched along, like a wounded knight. 
Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes 
the ground. 

Cel. Cry, holloa ! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee ; it curvets un- 
seasonably. He was furnished like a hunter. 
Ros. Oh, ominous ! he comes to kill my heart. 
Cel. I would sing my song without a burden : thou bring'st 
me out of tune. 

Ros. Do you not know I am a woman ? when I think, I 
must speak. Sweet, say on. 

{Enter Orlando and Jaques.) 
Cel. You bring me out : — Soft ! comes he not here ? 
Ros. 'T is he ; slink by and note him. 

(Celia and Rosalind retire.) 
Jaq. I thank you for your company ; but, good faith, I had 
as lief have been myself alone. 

Orla. And so had I ; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you 
too for your society. 

Jaq. God be with you ; let's meet as little as we can. 
Orla. I do desire we may be better strangers. 
Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs 
in their barks. 

Orla. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading 
them ill-favoredly. 

Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name ? 
Orla. Yes, just. 
Jaq. I do not like her name. 

Orla. There was no thought of pleasing you, when she was 
christened. 

Jaq. What stature is she of? 
Orla. Just as high as my heart. 

Jaq. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been 
acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of 
rings ? 

Orla. Not so: but I answer you right painted cloth, from 
whence you have studied your questions. 

Jaq. You have a nimble wit ; I think it was made of Ata- 
lanta's heels. Will you sit down with me ; and we two will 
rail against our mistress, the world, and all our misery ? 



444 young lady's reader. 

Orla. I will chide no breather in the world, but myself, 
against whom I know most faults. 

Jaq. The worst fault you have, is to be in love. 

Orla. 'T is a fault I would not change |br your best virtue. 
I am weary of you. 

Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool, when I found 
you. 

Orla. He is drowned in the brook ; look but in, and you 
shall see him. 

Jaq. There I shall see mine own figure. 

Orla. Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher. 

Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you : farewell, good signior 
love. [Exit.) 

Orla. I am glad of your departure : adieu, good Monsieur 
Melancholy. (Cel. and Ros. come forward. ) 

Ros. I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and under 
that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester ? 

Orla. Very well ; what would you ? 

Ros. I pray you, what is't a-clock ? 

Orla. You should ask me, what time o'day; there's no 
clock in the forest. 

Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sigh- 
ing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the 
lazy foot of time, as well as a clock. 

Orla. i\.nd why not the swift foot of time ? had not that 
been as proper ? 

Ros. By no means, sir : time travels in divers paces with 
divers persons: I'll tell you who time ambles withal, who time 
trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still 
withal. 

Orla. I pr'ythee, whom doth he trot withal ? 

Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the 
contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized: if the 
interim be but a se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that it seems 
the length of seven years. 

Orla. Who ambles time withal ? 

Ros, With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that 
hath not the gout : for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot 
study, and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain ; 
the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the 
other knowing no burden of heavy, tedious penury : these, 
time ambles withal. 

Orla. Whom doth he gallop withal ? 



COMEDY. 445 

Ros. With a thief to the gallows : for though he go as 
softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there. 

Orla. Who stays it still withal ? 

Ros. With lawyers in the vacation : for they sleep between 
term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves. 

Orla. Where dwell you, pretty youth ? 

Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister ; here in the skirts 
of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. 

Orla. Are you a native of this place ? 

Ros. As the coney, that you see dwells where she is kin- 
dled. 

Orla. Your accent is something finer than you could pur- 
chase in so removed a dwelling. 

Ros. I have been told so of many ; but, indeed, an old re- 
ligious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his 
youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for 
there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures 
against it ; and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched 
with so many giddy offenses as he hath generally taxed their 
whole sex withal. 

Orla. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he 
laid to the charge of women ? 

Ros. There were none principal ; they were all like one 
another, as half- pence are : every one fault seeming monstrous, 
till his fellow fault came to match it. 

Orla. I pr'ythee, recount some of them. 

Ros. No ; I will not cast away my physic, but on those 
that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses 
our young plants with carving Rosalind on their barks ; hangs 
odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles ; all, forsooth, 
deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy- 
monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to 
have the quotidian of love upon him. 

Orla. I am he that is so love-shaked ; I pray you, tell me 
your remedy. 

Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you ; he 
taught me how to know a man in love ; in which cage of rushes, 
I am sure, you are not prisoner. 

Orla. What are his marks ? 

Ros. A lean cheek, which you have not ; a blue eye, and 
sunken, which you have not ; an unquestionable spirit, which 
you have not ; a beard neglected, which you have not ; — but I 
pardon you for that; for, simply, your having a beard is a 

38 



446 young lady's reader. 

younger brother's revenue : — then your hose should be ungar- 
tered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe 
untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless des- 
olation. But you are no such man ; you are rather point-device 
in your accoutrements : as loving yourself, than seeming the 
lover of any other. 

Orla. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. 
Ros. Me believe it ! you may as soon make her that you 
love believe it ; which, I warrant, she is apter to do, than to 
confess she does ; that is one of the points in the which women 
still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are 
you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is 
so admired ? 

Orla. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosa- 
lind, T. am that he, that unfortunate he. 

Ros. But are you so much in love, as your rhymes speak ? 
Orla. Neither rhyme nor reason can express, how much. 
Ros. Love is merely a madness ; and, I tell you, deserves 
as well a dark house and a whip, as mad-men do ; and the rea- 
son why they are not so punished and cured, is, that the lunacy 
is so ordinary, that the whippers are in love too : yet I profess 
curing it by counsel. 

Orla. Did you ever cure any so ? 

Ros. Yes, one ; and in this manner. He was to imagine 
me his love, his mistress ; and I set him every day to woo me ; 
at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be 
effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, 
apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles ; for 
every passion something, and for no passion truly any thing, as 
boys and women are for the most part cattle of this color: 
would now like him, now loath him ; then entertain him, then 
forswear him ; now weep for him, then spit at him : that I drove 
my suitor from his mad humor of love, to a living humor of 
madness ; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, 
and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him, 
and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clear 
as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love 
in't. 

Orla. I would not be cured, youth. 

Ros. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind ; 
and come every day to my cote, and woo me. 

Orla. Now, by the faith of my love, I will ; tell me where 
it is. 



COMEDY. 



44? 



Ros. Go with me to it, and I will shew it you : and, by the 
way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live : will you 
go? 

Orla. With all my heart, good youth. 

Ros. Nay, nay ; you must call me Rosalind : — come, sis- 
ter, will you go ? (Exeunt.) 

Scene 3. — A Cottage in the Forest. Enter Rosalind and 

Celia. 

Ros. Never talk to me, I will weep. 

Cel. Do, I pr'ythee ; but yet have the grace to consider, 
that tears do not become a man. 

Ros. But have I not cause to weep ? 

Cel. As good cause as one would desire ; therefore weep. 

Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling color. 

Cel. Something browner than Judas's : marry, his kisses 
are Judas's own children. 

Ros. V faith, his hair is of a good color. 

Cel. An excellent color : your chesnut was ever the only 
color. 

Ros. But why did he swear he would come this morning, 
and comes not ? 

Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. 

Ros. Do you think so ? 

Cel. Yes, I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-steal- 
er ; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a 
covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut. 

Ros. Not true in love ? 

Cel. Yes, when he is in ; but, I think, he is not in. 

Ros. You have heard him swear downright, he was. 

Cel. Was, is not is : besides, the oath of a lover is no 
stronger than the word of a tapster ; they are both the confirm- 
ers of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the 
duke, your father. 

Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much question 
with him : he asked me of what parentage I was ; I told him, 
of as good as he ; so he laughed, and let me go. But what 
talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando ? 

Cel, 0, that's a brave man ! he writes brave verses, speaks 
brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, 
quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover ; as a puny tilter, 
that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a no- 
ble goose : but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides. 



448 young lady's reader. 

Act 4. — Scene I. — The Forest. Enter Rosalind, Celia, and 
Jaques. 

Jag. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted 
with thee. 

Bos. They say you are a melancholy fellow. 

Jaq. I am so ; I do love it better than laughing. 

Ros. Those that are in extremity of either, are abominable 
fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure, worse 
than drunkards. 

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing. 

Ros. Why, then, 't is good to be a post. 

Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emu- 
lation ; nor the musician's, which is fantastical ; nor the cour- 
tier's, which is proud ; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious ; 
nor the lawyer's, which is politic ; nor the lady's, which is 
nice ; nor the lover's, which is all these : but it is a melancholy 
of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from 
many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my 
travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most hut 
morous sadness. 

Ros. A traveler ! by my faith, you have great reason to be 
sad : I fear you have sold your own lands, to see other men's: 
then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich 
eyes and poor hands. 

Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. 
(Enter Orlando.) 

Ros. And your experience makes you sad : I had rather 
have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me sad, 
and to travel for it too. 

Orla. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind ! 

Jaq. Nay, then, God be wi' you, an' you talk in blank 
verse. (Exit.) 

Ros. Farewell, Monsieur Traveler : look, you lisp, and wear 
strange suits : disable all the benefits of your own country ; be 
out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making 
you that countenance you are ; or I will scarce think you have 
swam in a gondola. Why, how now, Orlando! where have 

you been all this while? You a lover? an' you serve me 

such another trick, never come in my sight more. 

Orla. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my 
promise. 

Ros. Break an hour's promise in love ! He that will divide 
a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the 



COMEDY. 449 

thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be 
said of him, that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I 
warrant him heart-whole. 

Orla. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 

Ros. Nay, an' you be so tardy, come no more in my sight ; 
I had as lief be wooed of a snail 

Orla. Of a snail ? 

Ros. Ay, of a snail ; for though he comes slowly, he car- 
ries his house on his head ; a better jointure, I think, than you 
can make a woman. 

Orla. What, of my suit ? 

Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. 
Am not I your Rosalind ? 

Orla. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be 
talking of hep. 

Ros. Well, in her person, 1 say — I will not have you. 

Orla. Then, in mine own person, I die. 

Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost 
six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any 
man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love cause. Troilus 
had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club ; yet he did 
what he could to die before ; and he is one of the patterns of 
love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though 
Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer 
night ; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the 
Hellespont, and being taken with the cramp, was drowned ; and 
the foolish chroniclers of that age, found it was — Hero of Ses- 
tos. But these are all lies ; men have died from time to time, 
and worms have eaten them, but not for love. 

Orla. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind ; 
for, I protest, her frown might kill me. 

Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a fly : but come, now I 
will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition ; and 
ask me what you will, I will grant it. 

Orla. Then love me, Rosalind. 

Ros. Yes, faith will I, Fridays, and Saturdays, and all. 

Orla. And wilt thou have me ? 

Ros. Ay, and twenty such. 

Orla. What say'st thou ? 

Ros. Are you not good? 

Orla. 1 hope so. 

Ros. Why, then, can one desire too much of a good thing ? 
38* 



450 young lady's reader. 

— Come, sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us, — Give 
me your hand, Orlando : — what do you say, sister ? 

Orla. Pray thee, marry us. 

Cel. I cannot say the words. 

Ros. You must begin, — " Will you, Orlando," — 

Cel. Go to ! — Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind ? 

Orla. I will. 

Ros. Ay, but when ? 

Orla, Why now ; as fast as she can marry us. 

Ros. Then you must say, — " I take thee, Rosalind, for 
wife." 

Orla. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. 

Ros. I might ask you for your commission ; but I do take 
thee, Orlando, for my husband : there's a girl goes before the 
priest ; and, certainly, a woman's thought runs before her 
actions. 

Orla. So do all thoughts ; they are winged. 

Ros. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and 
T will do that when you are disposed to be merry ; I. will laugh 
like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep. 

Orla. But will my Rosalind do so? 

Ros. By my life, she will do as I do. 

Orla. O, but she is wise, 

Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this : the 
wiser, the way warder: make the doors upon a woman's wit, 
and it will out at the casement ; shut that, and 'twill out at the 
key-hole ; stop that, it will fly with the smoke out at the chim- 
ney. 

Orla. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might 
say, — " Wit, whither wilt ?" For these two hours, Rosalind, I 
will leave thee. 

Ros. Alas, dear love, Icannot lack thee two hours. 

Orla. I must attend the duke at dinner ; by two o'clock I 
will be with thee again. 

Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways ; — I knew what you 
would prove ; my friends told me as much, and I thought no 
less: — that flattering tongue of yours won me: — 'tis but one 
cast away, and so, — come, death. — Two o' the clock is your 
hour? 

Orla. Ay, sweet Rosalind. 

Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and by all pretty 
oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your prom- 
ise, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the 



COMEDY. 451 

most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and 
the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that may be cho- 
sen out of the gross band of the unfaithful : therefore, beware 
my censure, and keep your promise. 

Orla. With no less religion, than if thou wert indeed my 
Rosalind: so, adieu. 

Ros. Well, time is the old justice that examines all such 
offenders, and let time try : adieu. (Exit Orlando.) 

Cel. You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate. 

Ros. O, coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou did'st 
know how many fathom deep I am in love : but it cannot be 
sounded ; my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay 
of Portugal. 

Cel. Or rather, bottomless ; that as fast as you pour affec- 
tion in, it runs out. 

Ros. That blind, rascally boy, that abuses every one's 
eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge, how deep I 
am in love : — I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of sight of 
Orlando : I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come. 

Cel. And I'll sleep. (Exeunt.) 

Scene 2. — Enter Rosalind and Celia. 

Ros. How say you now 1 Is it not past two o'clock ? and 
here's much Orlando ! 

Cel. I warrant you, with pure love, and troubled brain, he 
hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth — to sleep. 
(Enter Oliver.) 

OIL Good-morrow, fair ones : pray you, if you know 
Where in the purlieus of this forest, stands 
A sheep-cote, fenced about with olive-trees 1 

Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbor bottom, 
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream, 
Left on your right hand, brings you to the place : 
But at this hour the house doth keep itself, 
There's none within. 

Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, 
Then should I know you by description ; 
Such garments, and such years : " the boy is fair, 
Of female favor, and bestows himself 
Like a ripe sister : but the woman low, 
And browner than her brother." Are not you 
The owner of the house I did enquire for 1 

Cel. It is no boast, being asked to say, we are. 



452 young lady's reader. 

Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both ; 
And to that youth, he calls his Rosalind, 
He sends this bloody napkin ; are you he ? 

Ros. I am : what must we understand by this ? 

Oli. Some of my shame ; if you will know of me 
What man I am, and how, and why, and where 
This handkerchief was stained. 

Cel. I pray you, tell it. 

Oli. When last the young Orlando parted from you, 
He left a promise to return again 
Within an hour ; and, pacing through the forest, 
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, 
Lo, what befell ! he threw his eye aside, 
And, mark, what object did present itself? 
Under an oak, whose boughs were mossed with age, 
And high top bald with dry antiquity, 
A wretched, ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, 
Lay sleeping on his back ; about his neck 
A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself, 
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached 
The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly 
Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself, 
And with indented glides did slip away 
Into a bush : under which bush's shade 
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, 
Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like watch, 
When that the sleeping man should stir ; for 't is 
The royal disposition of that breast, 
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead : 
This seen, Orlando did approach the man, 
And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 

Cel. 0, I have heard him speak of that same brother, 
And he did render him the most unnatural 
That lived 'mongst men. 

Oli. And well he might so do, 
For well I know he was unnatural. 

Ros. But, to Orlando : — Did he leave him there, 
Food to the sucked and hungry lioness 1 

Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purposed so : 
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, 
And nature, stronger than his just occasion, 
Made him give battle to the lioness, 
Who quickly fell before him : in which hurtling 
From miserable slumber 1 awaked. 



COMEDY. 453 

Cel. Are you his brother ? 

Ros. Was it you he rescued ? 

Cel. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him ? 

Oli. 'Twas I ; but 't is not I : I do not shame 
To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 

Ros. But, for the bloody napkin 1 — 

Oli. By and by, 
When from the first to last, betwixt us two, 
Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed 
As, how I came into that desert place ; — 
In brief he led me to the gentle duke, 
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, 
Committing me unto my brother's love ; 
Who led me instantly unto his cave, 
There stripped himself, and here upon his arm 
The lioness had torn some flesh away, 
Which all this while had bled ; and now he fainted, 
And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. 
Brief, I recovered him ; bound up his wound ; 
And, after some small space, being strong at heart, 
He sent me hither, stranger as I am, 
To tell this story, that you might excuse 
His broken promise, and to give this napkin, 
Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth 
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. 

Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede ? sweet Ganymede ? 

[Rosalind faints.) 

OIL Many will swoon when they look on blood. 

Cel. There is more in it : — cousin — Ganymede ! 

OIL Look, he recovers. 

Ros. I would I were at home. 

Cel. We'll lead you thither : — 
I pray you, will you take him by the arm 1 

OIL Be of good cheer, youth : — you a man ? — 
You lack a man's heart. 

Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sir, a body would think this 
was well counterfeited : I pray you, tell your brother how well 
I counterfeited. Heigh ho ! — 

Oli. This was not counterfeit ; there is too great testimony 
in your complexion, that it was a passion of earnest. 

Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you. 

Oli. Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a 
man. 



454 young lady's reader. 

Ros. So I do : but i' faith, I should have been a woman by 
right. 

Cel. Come, you look paler and paler ; pray you, draw home- 
wards : — good sir, go with us. 

Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer back — 
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. 

Ros. I shall devise something : But, I pray you, commend 
my counterfeiting to him : — will you go ? [Exeunt.) 

Act 5. — Scene 1. — Enter Orlando and Oliver. 

Orl. Is't possible, that on so little acquaintance you should 
like her ? that but seeing, you should love her 1 and, loving, 
woo ? and, wooing, she should grant ? and will you persevere 
to enjoy her 1 

Oli. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty 
of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sud- 
den consenting ; but say with me, I love Aliena ; say with her, 
that she loves me ; consent with both, that we may enjoy each 
other : it shall be to your good ; for my father's house, and all 
the revenue that was old Sir Rowland's, will I estate upon you, 
and here live and die a shepherd. 

{Enter Rosalind.) 

Orl. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-mor- 
row : thither will I invite the duke, and all his contented follow- 
ers : go you, and prepare Aliena, for, look you, here comes my 
Rosalind. 

Ros. God save you, brother. 

OIL And you, fair sister. 

Ros. 0, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee 
wear thy heart in a scarf. 

Orl. It is my arm. 

Ros. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws 
of a lion. 

Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. 

Ros. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon, 
when he showed me your handkerchief? 

Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that. 

Ros. O, I know where you are : — nay, 't is true : there 
never was any thing so sudden, but the fight of two rams, and 
Caesar's thrasonical brag of — I came, saw, and overcame : for 
your brother and my sister no sooner met, but they looked ; no 
sooner looked, but they loved ; no sooner loved, but they sigh- 
ed ; no sooner sighed, but they asked one another the reason ; 



M 



COMEDY. 455 

no sooner knew the reason, but they sought the remedy ; and in 
these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage, 
which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before 
marriage : they are in the very wrath of love, and they will to- 
gether ; clubs cannot part them. 

Orl. They shall be married to-morrow ; and I will bid the 
duke to the nuptial. But 0, how bitter a thing it is to look into 
happiness through another man's eyes ! by so much the more 
shall I to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how 
much I shall think my brother happy, in having what he wishes 
for. 

Ros. Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for 
Rosalind 1 

Orl. I can live no longer by thinking. 

Ros. I will weary you then no longer with idle talking. 
Know of me then, (for now I speak to some purpose,) that I 
know you are a gentleman of good conceit : I speak not this, 
that you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, inso- 
much, I say, I know you are ; neither do I labor for a greater 
esteem than may in some little measure draw a belief from you, 
to do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe then, if you 
please, that I can do strange things : I have, since I was three 
years old, conversed with a magician, most profound in this 
art. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture 
cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry 
her : I know into what straits of fortune she is driven ; and 
it is not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, 
to set her before your eyes to-morrow ; human as she is, and 
without any danger. 

Orl. Speakest thou in sober meanings 1 

Ros. By my life, I do ; which I tender dearly, though I say 
I am a magician : therefore put you on your best array, bid your 
friends ; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall ; and 
to Rosalind, if you will. 

Scene 2. — Another part of the Forest. — Enter Duke Senior, 
Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia. 

Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy 
Can do all this that he hath promised ? 

Orl. I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not ; 
As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. 
(Enter Rosalind.) 

Ros. Patience once more, while our compact is urg'd : — 



456 young lady's reader. 

You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, (To the Duke.) 

You will bestow her on Orlando here 1 

Duke S. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her. 

Ros. And you say, you will have her, when I bring her ? 

(To Orlando.) 

Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. 

Ros. I have promised to make all this matter even. 
Keep you your word, duke, to give your daughter ; — 
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter. 

Duke S. I do remember in this shepherd-boy 
Some lively touches of my daughter's favor, 

Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him, 
Methought he was a brother to your daughter ; 
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born; 
And hath been tutored in the rudiments 
Of many desperate studies by his uncle, 
Whom he reports to be a great magician, 
Obscured in the circle of this forest. 

(Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.) 
(Enter Touchstone^) 

Touch. Salutation and greeting to you all ! 

Jaq. Good, my lord, bid him welcome : this is the motley- 
minded gentleman, that I have so often met in the forest : he 
hath been a courtier, he swears. 

Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my pur- 
gation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady ; 1 have 
been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy ; I have 
undone three tailors ; I have had four quarrels, and like to have 
fought one. 

Jaq. And how was that ta'en up 1 

Touch. 'Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the 
seventh cause. 

Jaq. How seventh cause? — good my lord, like this fellow. 

Duke S. I like him very well. 

Touch. God'ild you, sir ; I desire you of the like. 

Jaq. But, for the seventh cause ; how did you find the quar- 
rel on the seventh cause ? 

Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed : — as thus, sir, I 
did dislike the cut of a certain courtier's beard ; he sent me 
word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind 
it was : this is called the Retort courteous. If I sent him word 
again, it was not well cut, he would send me word, he cut it to 
please himself: this is called the Quip modest. If again, it 



COMEDY. 



457 



was not well cut, he disabled my judgment : this is called the 
Reply churlish. If again, it was not well cut, he would answer, 
I spake not true: this is called the Reproof of valiant. If 
again, it was not well cut, he would say, I lie : this is called 
the Countercheck quarrelsome : and so to the Lie circumstantial, 
and the Lie direct. 

Jaq. And how oft did you say, his beard was not well cut ? 

Touch. I durst go no further than the Lie circumstantial, nor 
he durst not give me the Lie direct; and so we measured swords, 
and parted. 

Jaq. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie 1 

Touch. 0, sir, we quarrel in print, by the book ; as you 
have books for good manners : I will name you the degrees. 
The first, the Retort courteous ; the second, the Quip modest ; 
the third, the Reply churlish ; the fourth, the Reproof valiant ; 
the fifth, the Countercheck quarrelsome ; the sixth, the Lie with 
circumstance ; the seventh, the Lie direct. All these you may 
avoid, but the Lie direct ; and you may avoid that too, with an If. 
I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel ; but 
when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought 
but of an If as If you said so, then I said so ; and they shook 
hands, and swore brothers. Your If is the only peacemaker ; 
much virtue in If. 

Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord 1 he's as good at any 
thing, and yet a fool. 

Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under 
the presumption of that, he shoots his wit. 

(Enter Rosalind, in woman's clothes, and Celia.) 

Ros. To you I give myself, for 1 am yours : — 

(To Duke S.) 
To you 1 give myself, for I am yours. (To Orlando.) 

Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter. 

Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind. 

Ros. I'll have no father, if you be not he. (To Duke S.) 
I'll have no husband, if you be not he. (To Orlando.) 

Duke S. O, my dear niece, welcome thou art to me ; 
Even daughter, welcome in no less degree. 
(Enter Jaques de Boys.) 

Jaq. de B. Let me have audience for a word or two ; 
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, 
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly : — 
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day 
Men of great worth resorted to this forest, 

39 



458 young lady's reader. 

Addressed a mighty power ! which were on foot,. 
In his own conduct, purposely to take 
His brother here, and put him to the sword : 
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came ; 
Where, meeting with an old religious man, 
After some question with him, was converted, 
Both from his enterprise, and from the world : 
His crown bequeathing to his banished brother, 
And all their lands restored to them again 
That were with him exiled : this to be true, 
I do engage my life. 

Duke S. Welcome, young man ; 
Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding : 
To one, his lands withheld ; and to the other, 
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. 
First, in this forest, let us do those ends 
That here were well begun, and well begot : 
And after, every of this happy number, 
That have endured shrewd days and nights with us, 
Shall share the good of our returned fortune, 
According to the measure of their states. 
Meantime, forget this new-fallen dignity 
And fall into our rustic revelry. 
Play, music ; — and you, brides and bridegrooms all, 
With measure heaped in joy, to the measures fall. 

Jaq. Sir, by your patience ; if I heard you rightly^ 
The duke hath put on a religious life, 
And thrown into neglect the pompous court ? 

Jaq. de B. He hath. 

Jaq. To him will I : out of these convertites 
There is much matter to be heard and learned. — 
You to your former honor I bequeath : ( To Duke S. ) 

Your patience and your virtue well deserve it ;— 
You to a love, that your true faith doth merit : — (To Orlando.) 
You to your land, and love, and great allies ; — (To Oliver.) 
I am for other than for dancing measures. 

Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay. 

Jaq. To see no pastime, I : — what you would have 
I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave. (Exit.) 

Duke S. Proceed, proceed : we will begin these rites, 
And we do trust they'll end in true delights. (Exeunt Omnes.) 



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